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Collected Poems 

The Author's Separate Books 

The Old-Fashioned Garden and Other Verses 

(out of print) 

The Brandywine 

Illustrated by Robert Shaw 50 cents 

Swarthmore Idylls 

Illustrated by Robert Shaw 50 cents 

Old Quaker Meeting- Houses 

166 Illustrations $^'S^ 

In Memory of Whittier 

Illustrated 25 cents 

Brandywine Days (Essays and Poems of rural flavor) 

Illustrated from photographs by J. Carroll Hayes $1.50 

Molly Pryce : a Quaker Idyll (Frontispiece) . . . . 2.5 cents 

Roger Mar land: a Quaker Idyll (Frontispiece) . .25 cents 

Any of the above eent postpaid on receipt of price. 



Q^r^^ -^tL^S-^jJUL ^\ooL^<^fi<2^ 

The Collected Poems 


yohn Russell Hayes 


The Biddle Press 


The author wishes to thank the editors of the follow- 
ing periodicals for kind permission to reprint poems first 
appearing in The Bibelot, The Book Lover, Book News 
Montlilj, Everybody's Magazine, Friends' Fellowship 
Papers, Friends' Intelligencer, The Harvard Graduates' 
Magazine, The Library Journal, Lippincott's Magazine, 
The Pathfinder, The Philadelphia Ledger and Record, 
The Poetry Review, The Reader, The Bible Society Record, 
The West Chester Local News, The Speaker and The 
Swarthmore Phoenix. 

For valued help in publishing this volume, the author 
is sincerely grateful to these friends: — J. M., W. P. B., 
C. F. J., E. T. B., and to his brother, J. C. H. 


1895, 1898, 1899, 1909, 1910, 
1911, 1914, 1915, 1916, 


John Russell Hayes 

m 20 1918 



"7 love all beauteous things, 
^»^,„^^ / seek and adore them. 

\ God hath no better praise. 

And man in his few short days 
Is honored for them." 

— Robert Bridges 

T TOO, have loved goodness and beauty, and in my verse 
have sought to tell of this love. 
Kind hearts, beloved faces, nature in her pastoral 
moods ; the dignity and unworldliness of old-fashioned 
Quakerism ; college ideals ; children and their innocent 
fancies ; the sentiment lingering alike round venerable 
cathedrals and the tranquil meeting-houses of the Society 
of Friends ; ocean and clouds, birds and flowers ; the 
charm of the Brandywine meadows ; the storied scenes of 
Pennsylvania; home-love and music and the friendship of 
books — these are the subjects of my unambitious song, in 
whose quiet lines I have sought to follow Wordsworth's 
faith, that 

"We live by admiration, hope and love." 

If no tragedy, no deep passion, inform my pages, — my 
paths have been rather those of pleasantness and peace. I 
have "found the common daylight sweet, and left to heaven 
the rest." Unsatisfied by the debate and jargon of mod- 
ern life, I have found solace in the woods and friendly 
fields ; for 

" 'T«5 my dream 
That best on dawn-red hills I seek the Master's face. 
More nearly find Him by a sunlit stream." 

J. R. H. 


To my Friendly Reader: V 

VERSES {1895) 


The Old-Fashioned Garden ....2 
The Golden Days of Old Ro- 
mance 10 

To BioN II 

Spenser 11 

The Garden of the Hesperides . i 2 

In Poet-Land 12 

Venice 13 

The Makers of Florence 13 

The Grave of Shelley 13 

The Grave of Keats 14 

Switzerland 14 

Oxford 15 

Ireland 15 

An Old-Time Garden 16 

A Portrait of Lucretia Mott. . .16 

Addison May 16 

"The Groves Were God's First 

Temples" 17 

Spring 17 

Summer 18 

Autumn 18 

Winter 19 

A May-Day Invitation 19 

Whittier's Birthday 20 

England 23 


A Dream of Other Days 26 

Sweet Spring Is Here 29 

In Blossom Time 31 

Aurora 32 

Crocuses 32 

White Violets 33 

The Fairies' Sky 33 

The Snow-Drop 34 

The Rose's Reply 34 

The Fairies' Supper 34 

The Mushroom Tent 36 

Cherry Blossoms 36 

The Faery Fleet 37 

The Blue-Bell Clock 37 

The Fairy Crown 37 

Poppies 38 

The Rosy Rain 39 

Pink Cheeks 39 

The Fairies in the Dairies. .. .39 

The Death of the Bee 40 

Pansies 41 

The Quaker-Lady 41 

To Mercury 41 

To Virgil 42 

To Calliope 43 

The Bandusian Spring 44 

To Horace 44 





swarthmore 55 

Happy College Days of Old. . . .59 

Anniversary Ode 60 

The West House 64 

"Beatus Ille" 67 

In College Days 70 

In Swarthmore Meeting 72 

Hope, Trust, Believe ! 73 

We Who Dwell in Sight of 

Thee 74 

Titania and Bottom 74 

The Asphaltum-Makers 75 

To Canon Rawnsley 75 

The Grey Olde Manne of 
Dreames 76 


(Second Series) 

Standing a Beacon 78 

Swarthmore Forever ! 79 

Shadows of a Dream 79 

Swarthmore Scenes 80 

The Scholar's Ideal 81 

The Planting of the Elms 84 

William W. Birdsall 87 

Farewell 88 

On a Portrait of Edgar Allen 

Brown 89 

"Aleck" MacDonnf.ll 91 

A Dead Poet 92 

Joseph Bilder^ack o.^ 

Why Should He Die ! 94 

Sleep Well, Dear Soul! 95 

To William Hyde Appleton . . . .95 
In a Copy of "Greek Poets". . . .98 

Golden Volumes 99 

Swarthmore's Peace-Makers. . .100 

"Divine Equality" lor 

When Pearson Reads loi 

To Paul M. Pearson 102 

Our Chautauqua 104 

John Burroughs at .Swarth- 
more 1 04 

Seed-Time and Harvest 106 

To the Class of 1905 108 

To THE Class of 1907 108 

"Lucky Thirteen" no 

My Classmate's Book no 

A. Mitchell Palmer, '91 m 

Of Other Times She Seemeth.iii 

"Rose Trelawney" 112 

The Barrie Recitals 112 

On Whittier Field .112 

Swarthmore Songs 113 

Written in a Copy of "The 

Halcyon" 114 

Around the May-Pole 114 

At a Latin Play 116 

At an Art Lecture 116 

The Old English Pastimes. .. 117 

Pierrot and Pierrette ti8 

May-Day, 1916 ng 

The Saga of '16 121 

Watching the Stars 123 

The College Chimes 125 

My Friendly Pine 126 

In the Library 127 

The Library Dove 127 

Fairy Melody 128 

When Gabriel Hines Dreams 

O'er the Keys 1 29 

Remembered Music 130 

Garber and La Monaca 131 

Moszkowski's "Arabesques". . .131 

The College Hymns 132 

The Lady of the Harp 133 

The Gentle Piper 133 

Farewell to Gabriel Hines. . . .134 


Easter Music 134 

With Joy I Remember Thy 

Music 134 

A Sister of the Birds 135 

October's Queen 135 

Ye Auncient Alumnus and Ye 

Freshmanne 137 

Home 138 

Whittier House '. . • 139 

Autumn Cheer 140 

A Summer-School Memory. ... 140 
The Vanished Rose 141 

"A Wreath of Wild Flowers". 142 

A Juryman's Dreams 142 

A Swarthmore Garden 142 

Up the Krum 144 

The "Woolman Tree" 144 

"Little Grey Home in the 

West" 144 

Christmas in Swarthmore. . . . 144 
A Swarthmore Christmas 

Dream 145 

Home Scenes at New Year. . . .149 


In Mfadows by the Brandy- 
wine 151 

Coming to the Farm 152 

Our Old Village 153 

Beside this Twilight Shore.. 154 

Garden Song at Twilight 154 

Sir Willi.\m Temple 155 

The Brandywine at Slumber- 

VILLE 155 

Old Chester County 156 

"Dance of Nymphs, — Evening". 157 

Among the Golden Wheat 158 

Nature's Healing 160 

Old Hills My Boyhood Knew.t6i 

Dream Ships 163 

Home Scenes 164 

Oxford's Idealist : Walter 

Pater 165 

Virgil of the Eclogues 166 

Adown the Brandywine 166 

Old Herrick 169 

Poetic Silvia 1 70 

The Brook 170 

Folded Are the Roses 172 

"Sweet Themmes ! Runne 

Softly" 173 

"A Sunny D.\y" 1 74 

After Harvest 174 

"Colin Cloute" 1 76 

Country Peace 1 76 

Below the Bridge 177 

The Susquehanna 179 

The Upper Brandywine 179 

Enchantment 1 79 

Spirit of September 180 

Walter Pater 182 

At Ced.xrcroft 182 

With Lloyd Mifflin's Son- 
nets 183 

Ye Olde Sunne Dial 184 

The Gifts of God 184 

Autumn Silence 186 

Farewell to the Farm 186 

IN MEMORY OF WHITTIER (1910) .... 187 

Old Quaker Meeting-Houses 

(1911) 199 

Old Concord Meeting 219 

Old Kennett Meeting-House. .221 

"A Haunt of Ancient Pe-ice". .224 
Old Memories, — New Conse- 
cration 226 

Ercildoun Meeting 228 


At Plymouth Meeting 230 

Old London Grove Meeting. . . .231 

At Quarterly Meeting , . . .233 

Spring Meadow Meeting-House.234 

Meeting Memories 235 

West Chester Meeting-House. 237 
John Bright: Hero of Peace. .238 
A Portrait of Samuel M. 

JaNNEY 2jq 

A Portrait of Martha E. Ty- 
son 240 

The Grave of Lucretia Mott. . .242 

John Wilhelm Rowntree 245 

Howard M. Jenkins 245 

Henry W. Wilbur 246 

A River of the Spirit 247 

For the Quaker Pageant 248 

Friends' Conference Echoes.. 249 

David Ferris 25 1 

Edith Newlin 252 

At a Quaker Grave 252 

"Mind the Light" 252 

MOLLY PRYCE (1914) 253 

ROGER NORLAND {1915) 273 

The Grave of Elias Hicks 290 

The Birthplace of Whittier. .290 

John Comly's Journal 290 


Around the Dear Home-Town. 291 

Avoca's Stream 292 

Centennial Ode 293 

Centennial Hymn 297 

Purple Phlox 297 

An Old-English Pageant 298 

Great Companions 300 

The Harvest 302 

Winter in Old Chester 

County 303 

A Year Ago 306 

JosiAH W. Leeds 307 

Home Thoughts 308 

Wawassan's Bright Stream... 308 

Long Ago in Boyhood 309 

The Grave of Bayard Taylor.. 310 
Old Chester County's Town- 
ships 311 

The Old Town 313 

MacElree's "Shadow Shapes". .313 

"Market Gossip" 314 

"For Ready and Willing Serv- 
ice" 314 

The Young Hero 31S 

"Little Friends" 315 

Memories 316 

Chester County Historical So- 
ciety Poems : 

The Indian's Grave 317 

Washington and Lafayette 

AT Brandywine 319 

New London Academy 321 

In Memory of Read and 

Taylor 322 

Two Chester County Sages. 325 
General Anthony Wayne.. 327 

The Prayer for Peace 329 

To Pennsylvania D. A. R 330 

Our Heroic Sires 330 

Henry Hayes : Our English 

Sire 331 

At Peace Beside Wawassan. . . .333 

Jacob Hayes 340 

"Green Lawn Farm" 340 

They Slumber in Peace 340 

Dr. Isaac I. Hayes 341 

Learning and Loyalty 342 

High School Memories 344 

Old Miner Street 348 



Vespers in Oxford Cathedral. .353 

Lichfield Cathedral 353 

Ely Cathedral 353 

Exeter Cathedral Chimes 353 

"Thou, Lincoln, on thy Sov- 
ereign Hill" 354 

Winchester Cathedral 354 

Worcester Cathedral 354 

Peterborough Cathedral 354 

Matins in York Minster 354 

Gloucester Cathedral 354 

Salisbury Cathedral at Sun- 
set 355 

Canterbury Cathedral 355 

In East Lancashire 355 

In Huntingdonshire 355 

Beside the Ouse 355 

St. John's College Garden, Ox- 
ford 355 

Roses and Laurel 356 

S. Weir Mitchell 356 

Ave Carissime ! 357 

Charles Eliot Norton 358 

William James 358 

"Balm for the Souls of Men". .359 

Gentlest and Kindliest 360 

Long Junes Ago 362 

Frances E. Willard 363 

Henrietta Emley Walter 363 

Ocean Reveries 364 

On Reading a History of Eng- 
lish Farming 375 

American Apples in Bishops- 
gate 375 

Sunset in Venice 375 

Alsace 375 

Betrayed ! 376 

William De Morgan 376 

Alfred Noyes' Epic of 

"Drake" 376 

On Reading John Erskine's 

Poems 376 

Sarah Orne Jewett's Letters. 376 

The Greek Dancer 376 

As Winter Wanes 378 

To the South Wind 379 

The Return of Spring 380 

April 381 

April's Here ! 381 

Enchanting Gifts 382 

The Blackbird 382 

Robin, Dear 383 

May 383 

June 384 

July 384 

Midsummer 385 

August 386 

September 386 

October 387 

Autumn Rain 388 

Farewell to October 389 

December Nights 390 

Christmas Eve 390 

The Salvation Army 392 

ifuLE-TiDE's Happy Peace 393 

December 393 

Robert Tyler 394 

To A Southern Damsel 394 

To George Cabot Lodge 394 

To Edward T. Biddle 394 

To J. R. S 394 

Beside the Fire 395 

To J. M 395 

To A. J. M 395 

A Child's Face 395 

A Home 395 

Little Leon 396 

Child's Slumber Song 396 

Child of Melody and Light. . . .397 

To a Dreaming Child 398 

"Peacherino" 398 

Lovely and Lovable Child.... 399 

"The Age of Innocence" 399 

Heart of Joy 400 

Lavendar 400 

In the Church 401 


At Brandyvvine Manor CHURCn.401 

Waste Not Your Hour 402 

"Efficiency" 402 

Susan B. Anthony 403 

In April 403 

iHE Summer Moon 403 

September by the BRANDYWiNE.403 

A World of Silver 403 

At Narragansett Pier 404 

The Hotel Blenheim 404 

Shop-Signs 404 

A Lecture on Old French So- 
ciety 404 

"The Land of Heart's Desire". 404 

Old Irish Songs 404 

After Hearing Old English 

Songs 40S 

At a Beethoven Recital 405 

After a Chopin Recital 405 

Rubinstein's "Sphaeren-Mu- 

sik" 405 

Memories of Home 405 

To My Books 405 

In Beauty's Quest 406 

Odysseus 406 

Sappho 407 

Old Romance 407 


Young Poe Beside the Hudson. 409 

At Concord 409 

At the Burial of Lord Tenny- 
son 410 

Horace Howard Furness 411 

A Well-Loved Author 411 

On Reading Woodberry's "Wild 

Eden" 411 

The Sky-Lark of the Poets ..412 

To Herbert Bates 414 

The Silent Poets 415 

To a F'riend 415 

At Buck Hill Falls 418 

Her Memory 418 

Longing for Ireland 419 

Saint Patrick 419 

Our Ancient Mother 421 

Beside the Sea 422 

A Sea-Memory 423 

The Isle of Dreams 423 

"MusA Regina" 424 

The Bodleian Library 424 

Harvard Library 425 

Brown University Library . . .425 
Columbia University Library. .425 
Amherst College Library ....425 
Princeton University Library. 425 

Vassar College LiBiiARY 426 

Haverford College Library ...426 
Bkyn Mawr College Library. . .426 

A Library by the Sea 426 

The Children's Reading Room. 426 
The New Cathedral of St. 

John the Divine 427 

Across the World 427 

LuRGAN 428 

Grandfather's Farm 428 

John N. Russell 430 

Across the Years 431 

Bergamot 431 

Baltimore 431 

A Portrait Painter 431 

A Quaker Girl's Portrait ....432 

Aileen's Portrait 432 

The Golden Wedding 433 

Consolation 434 

"Elm wood" 436 

Paganini's Violin 437 

When Dorothy Plays 437 

At a Performance of "Comus".437 
The Viol, the Harp, and the 

Reedy Bassoon 438 

Her Beautiful Singing 438 

"The Song of the Shepherd 

Lehl" 439 

Music Manuscripts 439 

The Songs of Hawaii 440 

Easter Anthems 440 

Russian Hymns 441 

Toward Greece 441 

At Horace's Sabine Farm ....441 
By Airship from Sea to Sea. . .441 


That is the Life for Me! . . . .444 

The Delaware River 445 

The Delaware at Cafe May... 446 
Airships at Willow Grove ...446 

Horace Howard Furness 446 

The Land of Penn 447 

The Susquehanna 447 

The Forks of the Susquehanna.447 

The Juniata 447 

The Delaware at Penn's Manor 


Early Dutch Farmers 447 

The Early Swedes 448 

Conrad Weiser 44^ 

Count von Zinzendorf 448 

The Moravians '. 448 

Old Pennsylvania Iron- 
Masters 448 

General Peter Muhlenberg. . .448 
Robert Fulton's Birthplace. .449 
Joseph Priestley's Grave ....449 

"Wheatland" 449 

The Penn Statue 449 

James Logan's House 449 

Old Philadelphia Streets ....450 

Lower Cherry Street 450 

Old Strawberry Street 450 

The Grave of Franklin 450 

Independence Hall 450 

The Portraits in Independence 

Hall 451 

The Betsy Ross House 451 

The Grave of John Morton . . .451 
The Grave of James Wilson. . .451 
The Philadelphia Cathedral. .451 

At Yearly Meeting 452 

The Graveyard of Old St. 

Peter's Church 452 

Vespers at Holy Trinity 452 

The Church of the Trans- 
figuration 452 

Arch Street M. E. Church... 452 
The Old Philadelphia Bar ...453 

The Law School 453 

A Street Piano in Logan 
Square 453 

John Bartram's Garden 453 

The Old Chew Mansion 453 

'I HE Morris House 454 

Gettysburg 454 

The Statue of General Meade. 454 
The Peaceful Brandywine ...454 
The Old Meeting House on 

Brandywine Battlefield . .454 
Old St. David's Church at 

Radnor 455 

The Grave of "Indian Han- 
nah" 455 

The "Star-Gazer's Stone" ....455 
Humphry Marshall's Garden.. 455 

General Anthony Wayne 455 

Bayard Taylor's Grave ...... .456 

West Chester 456 

Coatesville 456 

At the Birthplace of Ben- 
jamin West 456 

A Woodland near SwARTHMORE.456 

Great Pennsylvania 456 

Pennsylvania 457 

At Penn's Manor 459 

Crowned and Sainted 459 

Robert Fulton 462 

Honor and Homage 465 

The Love-Songs of Sidney Fair- 

I. By Severn Sea 467 

II. A Child of Ocean 467 

III. In Herrick's Garden.. 468 

IV. A Southern Girl 468 

V. On Breden Hill 469 

VI. Golden Dora 469 

VII. Marian Marlow 470 

VIII. In the Cathedral ....471 

IX. Vanished 472 

With Shakespeare in War- 
wickshire 472 

Thankfulness 474 

Cecily 479 

Earth's Fair Divinity 480 

The Children's Fishing 481 

Epilogue 484 


The Old-Fashioned Garden 
and Other Verses 


VWARTHMORE, fairest! 

Ah, to thee 
Must my earliest offerings he, — 
To thee upon thy grassy hill 
'Mid thy meadows sweet and still. 
With thy charms that dearer grow 
As the hasting seasons go. 
In the summer of my youth 
Drank I at thy founts of truth. 
Joying in the ample store 
Thou didst ever freely pour, — 
Lessons out of Nature's page. 
Words of scholar and of sage. 
And the love of poets old 
Chanting numbers all of gold. 
Happy years and dreamy-sweet, 
Happy years, hut all too fleet! 
Holding these in memory 
I inscribe my Book to thee. 

The Old- Fashioned Garden 


A MONG the meadows of the countryside, 

From city noise and tumult far away, 
Where clover-blossoms spread their fragrance wide 

And birds are warbling all the sunny day, 
There is a spot which lovingly I prize. 
For there a fair and sweet old-fashioned country garden 

The gray old mansion down beside the lane 
Stands knee-deep in the fields that lie around 

And scent the air with hay and ripening grain. 
Behind the manse box-hedges mark the bound 

And close the garden in, or nearly close. 

For on beyond the hollyhocks an olden orchard grows. 

The house is hoary with the mould of years. 

And crumbling are its ivy-covered walls ; 
The rain-storms dim it with their misty tears, 

And sadly o'er its gloom the sunlight falls. 
Ah, different far the sweet old garden there. 
For balmy rains and warming suns but make it glow more 

So bright and lovely is the dear old place. 
It seems as though the country's very heart 

Were centered here, and that its antique grace 
Must ever hold it from the world apart. 

Immured it lies among the meadows deep. 

Its flowery stillness beautiful and calm as softest sleep. 

Fair is each budding thing the garden shows, 
From spring's frail crocus to the latest bloom 

Of fading autumn. Every wind that blows 
Across that glowing tract sips rare perfume 

From all the tangled blossoms tossing there; — 

Soft winds, they fain would linger long, nor any farther 

The Old-Fashiofied Garden 

The morning-glories ripple o'er the hedge 

And fleck its greenness with their tinted foam; 

Sweet wilding things, up to the garden's edge 
They love to wander from their meadow home, 

To take what little pleasure here they may 

Ere all their silken trumpets close before the warm 

The larkspur lifts on high its azure spires. 

And up the arbor's lattices arc rolled 
The quaint nasturtium's many-colored fires ; 

The tall carnation's breast of faded gold 
Is striped with many a faintly-flushing streak, 
Pale as the tender tints that blush upon a baby's cheek. 

The old sweet-rocket sheds its fine perfumes ; 

With golden stars the coreopsis flames ; 
And here are scores of sweet old-fashioned blooms 

Dear for the very fragrance of their names, — 
Poppies and gillyflowers and four-o'clocks, 
Cowslips and candytuft and heliotrope and hollyhocks, 

Harebells and peonies and dragon-head, 

Petunias, scarlet sage and bergamot, 
Verbenas, ragged-robins, soft gold-thread, 

The bright primrose and pale forget-me-not. 
Wall-flowers and crocuses and columbines. 
Narcissus, asters, hyacinths, and honeysuckle vines, 

Foxgloves and marigolds and mignonette. 

Dahlias and lavender and damask rose. 
O dear old flowers, ye are blooming yet, — 

Each year afresh your lovely radiance glows : 
But where are they who saw your beauty's dawn? 
Ah, with the flowers of other years they long ago have 

They long have gone, but ye are still as fair 
As when the brides of eighty years ago 


The Old-Fashioned Garden 

Plucked your soft roses for their waving hair, 
And blossoms o'er their bridal-veils to strow. 
Alas, your myrtles on a later day 

Marked those low mounds where 'neath the willows' shade 
at last they lay ! 

Beside the walk the drowsy poppies sway, 
More deep of hue than is the reddest rose, 

And dreamy-warm as summer's midmost day. 

Proud, languorous queens of slumberous repose — 

Within their little chalices they keep 

The mystic witcher}^ that brings mild, purple-lidded sleep. 

Drowse on, soft flowers of quiet afternoons, — 
The breezes sleep beneath your lulling spell; 

In dreamy silence all the garden swoons. 
Save where the lily's aromatic bell 

Is murmurous with one low-humming bee, 

As oozy honey-drops are pilfered by that filcher wee. 

The poets' flower, the pale narcissus, droops 

Like that lorn youth beside the fountain's brink ; 

Aslumber are the phlox's purple troops. 
And every musky rose and spicy pink ; 

Asleep the snowdrop's tiny milken spheres, 

And all the fuchsia's little white and crimson chandeliers. 

A sweet seclusion this of sun and shade, 

A calm asylum from the busy world, 
Where greed and restless care do ne'er invade. 

Nor news of 'change and mart each morning whirled 
Round half the globe ; no noise of party feud 
Disturbs this peaceful spot nor mars its perfect quietude. 

But summer after summer comes and goes. 
And leaves the garden ever fresh and fair ; 

May brings the tulip, golden June the rose. 

And August winds shake down the mellow pear. 

'The Old-Fashioned Garaen 

Man blooms and blossoms, fades and disappears, — 

But scarce a tribute pays the garden to the passing years. 

Nay, time has served but to enhance its charms, 

And for a century the folk have blest 
This glowing isle amid their sea of farms. 

On which 'tis sweet the tired eyes to rest. 
O'er all the land its flowery spell is cast, 
A fragrant chain that links the present with the misty 

And here the daffodils still yield their gold, 
And hollyhocks display their satin wheels. 

The soft harebells as in the days of old 
Ring out their carillon of fairy peals, 

And dandelion-balls nod o'er the grass 

And give from out their fluffy store to all the winds that 

The droning bees still sip ambrosial dew 
Within the spiral foxglove's purple tents ; 

Emboldened by the poppy's angry hue, 

Sweet-williams hold their little parliaments, 

Discussing in a silken undertone 

The mullein's insolence for that, from fields plebeian 

He dares to flaunt his vulgar woollen face 

Among the garden's aristocracy. 
Long nurtured in this rare and cloistered place. 

These gentles hold themselves of high degree, 
Disdaining as a common, low-born weed 
Each wilding bloom that traces not his line from ancient 

O fair the larkspur's slender tufts of blue. 

And fair the saffron-kirtled columbine ; 
Fair is the lily from whose luscious dew 

The elfin-folk distil their honeyed wine. 


The Old- Fashioned Garaen 

The flags are fair, and fair the flowers that ope 
And spread the sweet, old-fashioned redolence of helio- 

Fair is the sweet-pea's witching little face. 
And fair the dodder's reels of amber thread ; 

Fair is the slim brocade of dainty lace 

The sweet-alyssum weaves along each bed. 

All, all is fair within the garden's bound ; 

No sweeter or more lovely spot, I ween, could e'er be found. 

And here, methinks, might poet-lovers' sighs 
Chime with their ladies' sweetly winsome talk, 

Here Astrophel adore his Stella's eyes. 
And Waller with his Saccharissa walk. 

Or Herrick frame a flowery verse to please 

His silken-bodiced Julia here beneath the cherry-trees. 

Ah, Herrick, what a sunny charm is thine. 
Rare laureate-singer of the lovely flowers ! 

Across thy page the rosy garlands twine, 
And dewy April melts in fragrant showers 

Of cloudy blossoms, pink and white and red. 

And Maj'-Day maidens weave a wreath to crown their 
Poet's head. 

O sweet old English gardens, he is gone, — 
Green Devon lanes, ye know his face no more; 

But long as dew-kissed buds shall wake at dawn 
And daffodils swaj'^ by the grassy shore. 

So long will Herrick's floral music sound. 

And Memory's greenest tendrils climb to wreathe his name 

And here on dreamy August afternoons 

I love to pore upon his golden book ; 
And here among the roses that are June's, 

On some green bench within a bowery nook. 

The Old-Fashioned Garden 

Where rosy petal-drift may strew the page, 

'Tis sweet to read the pensive numbers of old Persia's sage, 

Omar Khayyam, the wisest of the wise. 

Ah, now in balmy Naishapur he sleeps 
These almost thousand years ; and where he lies 

His well-loved rose each spring her petals weeps. 
Of what may be hereafter no man knows, — 
Then let us live to-day, he cried, as lives the lovely rose! 

O stately roses, yellow, white, and red. 

As Omar loved you, so we love to-day. 
Some roses with the vanished years have sped. 

And some our mothers' mothers laid away 
Among their bridal-gowns' soft silken folds, 
Where each pale petal for their sons a precious memory 

And some we find among the yellowed leaves 
Of slender albums, once the parlor's pride. 

Where faint-traced ivy pattern interweaves 
The mottoes over which the maiden sighed. 

O faded roses, did they match your red. 

Those fair 3'oung cheeks whose color long ago with yours 
has fled.'' 

And still doth balmy June bring many a rose 

To crown the happy garden's loveliness. 
Against the house the old sweet-brier grows 

And cheers its sadness with soft, warm caress. 
As fragrant yet as in the far-off time 

When that old mansion's fairest mistress taught its shoots 
to climb. 

Enveloped in their tufted velvet coats 

The sweet, poetical moss-roses dream; 
And petal after petal softly floats 

From where the tea-rose spreads her fawn and cream, — 

The Old-Fashioned Garden 

Like fairy barks on tides of air they flow, 

And rove adown the garden silently as drifting snow. 

Near that old rose named from its hundred leaves 

The lovely bridal-roses sweetly blush ; 
The climbing rose across the trellis weaves 

A canopy suffused with tender flush ; 
The damask roses swing on tiny trees, 
And here the seven-sisters glow like floral pleiades. 

Nor lacks there music in this lovely close, — 

The music of the oriole's soft lute, 
The gush of cadenced melody that flows 

And echoes from the blue-bird's idXx^ flute; 
And here beside the fountain's mossy brink 
There rings the lilting laughter of the happy bobolink. 

From forth the branches of the lilac tree 

The robin-redbreast's bubbling ditties well; — 

O cherished will his name forever be, 
For he it was, as olden stories tell. 

That eased the crown upon the Saviour's head 

And with the bleeding thorn stained his own breast forever 

And now and then the shy wood-robin comes 
And from the pear tree pours his liquid notes ; 

The black-bird plays among the purple plums ; 
The humming-bird about the garden floats 

And like a bright elf wings his darting flight, 

A shimmering, evanescent point of green and golden light. 

Down in the lily's creamy cup he dips, 

Then whirrs to where the honeysuckle showers 

Its luscious essences ; but most he sips 

From out the deep, red-throated trumpet-flowers ; — 

Sweet booty there awaits the spoiler's stealth 

As horn by horn he rifles all their summer-hoarded wealth. 

T'he Old- Fashioned Garaen 

The ragged-robins gaze with pleased surprise 

Upon the jewelled beauty flashing there; 
The pansies open M'ide their velvet eyes 

And ponder sweetly on that rover fair, 
Until the purple Canterbury-bell 
Chimes out its little curfew tolling them to slumber's spell. 

O sweet is every rural sight and sound 

That greets us in the pleasant countryside, — 

The fields of crimson clover walled around 
With greenest hedges, fertile valleys wide. 

Long wooded slopes, and many a grassy hill, 

And peaceful silver rivers flowing on from mill to mill. 

Sweet is the odor of the warm, soft rain 

In violet-days, when spring opes her green heart ; 

And sweet the apple trees along the lane 

Whose lovely blossoms all too soon depart ; 

And sweet the brimming dew that overfills 

The golden chalices of all the trembling daffodils. 

Sweet is the fragrance of the fruity vine. 

And sweet the rustle of the broad-leaved corn; 

And sweet the lowing of the great-eyed kine 
Among the milking-sheds at early morn 

As they await the farmer's red-cheeked girls. 

While still the spiders' filmy webs are bright with dewy 

And sweet the locust's drowsy monotone, 

And sweet the ring-dove's brooding plaint at eve ; 

And sweet from far-off meadows newly mown 
The breath of hay that tempts the bees to leave 

The corridors of hollyhocks ; and sweet 

To see the sun-browned reapers in among the ripened 

The Golden Days of Old Romance 

But sweeter far in this old garden close 

To loiter 'mid the lovely, old-time flowers, 

To breathe the scent of lavender and rose, 
And with old poets pass the peaceful hours. 

Old gardens and old poets, — happy he 

Whose quiet summer days are spent in such sweet 
company ! 

And now is gone the dreamy afternoon, — 
The sun has sunk below yon western height ; 

The pallid silver of the harvest-moon 

Floods all the garden with its soft, weird light. 

The flowers long since have told their dewy beads. 

And all is silent save the frogs' small choir in distant 



LOVE the golden days of old romance 

That live for us in legend and in story, — 
The Age of Gold when man was in his glory, 
The feats of fairies and their moonlight dance. 
The stately jousts with noble knights a-prance. 
And lordly loves in castles gray and hoary. 
And so I turn to some old allegory 
Of merry England, or of sunny France, 
Or dreamy Spain ; and all entranced I sit 
With mystic Arthur at the Table Round, 
Or visit that dark vale where Roland wound 
His last sad horn, or thread the purple light 
Of Spenser's woods, or laugh with him who writ 
Of old La Mancha's crazed, fantastic knight. 




On his ' Lament for Adonis ' 

TPHE woe of widowed Cypris and the groan 

Of that sweet lady drooping o'er the bed 

Where lay the form of lovely Adon dead, 
Whose too, too early death she did bemoan 
For that it left her loverless and lone 

Amid the tears the Loves lamenting shed, — 

These dolors have in later poets bred 
The melancholy music of thy moan, 
O gentle Bion. On this languid string 

Young Moschus, mourning thine own parting, pla^'ed; 

Sweet Spenser, stroking its sad minors, made 
His moan for Sidney, as for hapless King 

Great Milton. Last the noble Laureate laid 
The ' In Memoriam ' as his offering. 



WENT with Spenser into Faerie Land, 

And passed through purple forests deep and wide; 

Down dim, enchanted glades where I espied 
The lovely hamadryads' sylvan band. 
Along the marge of many a golden strand 

We swept in cedarn shallops down the tide; 

And ever as we fared he magnified 
The name of Gloriana high and grand. 
O mighty Dreamer ! great Idealist ! 

The fields of Phantasie are thy demesne. 

Sweet is the marriage-music thou dost play, 
And sweet to hear thee pipe the shepherd's lay ; 
But sweeter far in summertide to list 

To the stately measures of thy ' Faerie Queene.' 


In Poet-Land 


On a Picture by Sir Frederic Leighton 

r^ AR on the western borders of the world, 
Hard by the utmost pale of sunset seas, 
Where never mortal men have felt the breeze 

Of those dim regions murmur round the furled 

And idle sails of vessels tempest-whirled 

Far from their course, — dwell the Hesperides, 
Forever languorous laid in poppied ease 

On beds of amaranth Avith dews empearled. 

Sweet are their days ; no other care have they 

Than watching o'er that fruitage fair and golden 

Which Earth to Hera at her wedding gave. 
A paradise is theirs, and poets olden 

Have sung how mortals ever yet essay 

To reach those Isles of Bliss bevond the wave. 



WHO will leave sad care and go with me 
To that enchanted land where Poets dwell — 
A glorious brotherhood — in some far dell 

Among the meads of golden Arcady ! 

There blind old Homer, lord of poesy. 

And Virgil, his far son, hear Dante tell 

Of that dread pilgrimage through Heaven and Hell. 

There Chaucer joys in sunny minstrelsy. 

And gentle Spenser floats on silver streams 

Of phantasie ; and ah, what raptures run 
From Shakespeare's lute that shames the 
nightingale ! 

There Milton meditates celestial themes, 

Keats paints his purple page, and Tennyson 
Is singing Arthur and the Holy Grail. 


The Grave of Shelley 


nPHEY told me thou wert fallen to decay, 

Old Venice, and hadst lost thine ancient pride ; 

But as upon thy silent streets I glide 
And mark the stately piles that line the way, 
And all th}^ spires and domes in dim array 

Soft mirrored in the Adriatic's tide, — 

I cannot think thy glory all has died. 
Nay ! in the calmness of thy later day 
Thou hast the mellow bloom of ripened age; 

Gone is thy youth, yet thou art still as fair 

As any dove that haunts thy holy square. 
Like Ariadne's was thy heritage, — 

A lonely queen beside the silver sea. 

Sad but forever beautiful to be ! 


T TROD the streets of that fair Tuscan town 
And saw the men that Florence called her own ; 
In pictured effigy and sculptured stone 

Repose those peerless sons of old renown. 

Far-thoughted Galileo there looks down. 
And Michael Angelo, severe and lone, 
W^ith that same sleeping strength that he has shown 

In his own ' Moses.' And I marked the frown 

Of him who traversed Hell and Paradise ; 

And, near the stone whereon great Dante dreamed, 

Calm Brunelleschi's upward-gazing eyes 

Fixt rapturous upon his glorious dome; 
And last, San Marco's Monk whose lightnings beamed 
Like some pure star in that dark night of Rome ! 


'T'HE cypress throws across the yellowed stone 

Its darkness gathered from the countless years ; 
The sad, wan flowers drop their pallid tears, 

'^nd by the moon the night-owl makes her moan. 



And yet no narrow tomb claims him its own, 
For where the riotous sea-wind uprears 
The foaming billows 'neath the starry spheres, 

Forever are his deathless ashes blown. 

O Heart of Hearts, bright Ariel of the dawn ! 
The most ethereal of poetic race ! 
Like young Actaeon saw he face to face 

Divinest Beauty with her veil withdrawn ; — 

Was it for this he passed from earth so young 
And left so soon that glorious lyre unstrung? 


X-JERE lies young Adonais, stricken low 
All in the dewy morning of his days. 
Upon his sleep the soft moon bends her gaze. 

As on the Latmian shepherd's long ago. 

And for her own loved Poet pours her woe. 

Here no dark cypress-tree its shadow sways. 
But through the grass the lowly ivy strays 

And tender violets in sorrow grow. 

Above his earthly bed we stand and weep. 
And yet we know his spirit never dies, 
Sweeter than all the songs he ever sung. 

Soothed in the languor of eternal sleep. 
Like his beloved Endymion he lies, 
Forever beautiful, forever young ! 


T SAW thine orchards as they lay aglow 
With April's bloom ; I saw thy lower vales 
Roll their green waves high as the fields where fails 

All verdure, 'neath the icy winds that blow 

Across those wastes of everlasting snow. 
I stood among thy lofty forest dales 
And saw the peaceful lake, the mirrored sails, 

And all the little universe below. 



Emblem of Freedom, Switzerland, art thou ! 

Thy air, thy soil, thy mountains, all are free; 
Wild-free thy streams that from the high cliff's brow 

Leap joyous down to meet the southern sea. 
Before thy Tell's beloved name we bow 

And hail thee perfect type of Liberty ! 

"lyY/" HO loveth not the hundred-towered town 

By which the Isis' lingering waters flow, — 
Those mediaeval streets where silent go 
The pensive scholars clad in cap and gown; 
Green gardens whose deep quietude can drown 

All worldly thought ; the carven fanes where blow 
The rapturous organs, and whose dim panes glow 
With blazoned saints and kings of far renown ! 
A cit}' of enchantment thou dost seem. 

Rare Oxford, and thy sweet and tranquil charm 
Comes like the soothing of an old-world dream 
To cheer our restless days, and to disarm 

The blinded ones who scorn fair Learning's fame 
And rudely seek to mar her ancient name. 

T^HY memory, green Erin, haunteth me 

Since first I stood upon Killarney's shore. 
Or saw from Limerick's spires the Shannon pour 
Its turbid waters toward the western sea ; 
And in my fancy's hour I turn to thee 
To muse upon thy never-failing store 
Of ancient myth and legendary lore 
Enshrining every glade and rock and tree. 
Across thy lonely bogs the Banshee moans, 
At eve the fiddle cries in mystic tones. 

And elfin-folk dance on the moon-lit green. 
Thy scenes I love, but chiefly Mulla's dell. 
Where Spenser, rapt in rich enchantment's spell, 
Saw his great vision of the * Faerie Queene.' 


Addiso?i May 


C\ FOR a garden of the olden time 

Where none but long-familiar flowers grow, 
Where pebbled paths go winding to and fro, 
And hone3'^suckles over arbors climb ! 
There would I have sweet mignonette and thyme, 

With hollyhocks and dahlias all arow, 

The hyacinth inscribed with words of woe, 
The small blue-bell that beats a dainty chime 
For elfin ears ; and daffodillies, too. 

The sleepy poppy, and the marigold, 

The peony with petals manifold, 
And ragged-robins, pink and white and blue. 

All these and more I'd have, and back of all 

A thousand roses on a mossy wall ! 


I LOOK on that serene and saintly face 

And mark the placid beauty pictured there ; 

In that calm countenance no weight of care 
Nor darkness of distress could e'er efface 
Or overshade the sweet, old-fashioned grace. 

She seems an angel sent to do and dare, 

A gentle martyr fortified to bear 
Truth's sorest trials. Yet here is no sad trace 
Of her life's battles ; from those tranquil eyes 

There beams a perfect peace. O noble soul, 
What do not Truth and Freedom owe to thee ! 
Thy name we love, thy memory we prize ; 

And round thy brow we see the aureole 

That crowned thy life of sweet philanthropy. 


A LAS, that fairest flowers must fall at last ! 
Alas, that earth should lose such men as he. 
And we be reft of one whose courtesy 
Made glad the very children as he passed ! 



In finest mould his gentle soul was cast, 

Learning and wisdom his in large degree ; 

His da3's were spent in calm serenity 
Communing with the great ones of the Past. 
Farewell, rare friend ! All empty is thy place, 

And e'er shall be ; yet we who stay behind 
True comfort take as reverently we scan 
Thy blameless life, that fine and courtly grace 

Of thine, which, wedded to a noble mind. 

Made rich ' the grand old name of gentleman.' 


'T'HE groves were God's first temples, and to-day, 
Should man yet worship there, were he unwise? 
The gray old woods whose mighty trunks uprise 
In silent majesty, where wildings sway 
Their fragrant bells and scent the air with May ; 
The fields whose flowery beauty open lies 
Beneath the glory of the summer skies : — 
These have been nature's simple shrines for aye, 
These are the temples of the living God. 

And so for dome the over-arching blue 
I'll take, for floor the soft and verdant sod. 
For aisles the trees in stately avenue, — 

While myriad choirs of birds in hymns of bliss 
Fill all the heart of this vast edifice. 


V\7ELC0ME, thrice welcome to thee, lovely Spring, 
Sweet time of mellow rains and gentle dew ! 
Like Flora comest thou, with retinue 
Of every tender plant and leafy thing. 
At thy approach the world is wakening. 

And tree and shrub and grass their life renew ; 
The meads are starred with floAvers of fairest hue, 
And orchards wide their blossomed fragrance fling. 



Emblem of budding innocence thou art, 

Sweet, gentle, virgin season of the year; 
A note of love awakes in every heart 

When earth enrobes herself in thy rich green. 
Then come, sweet youths and maidens all, come near. 
And weave a flowery crown for this fair Queen ! 

C WEET, languorous days of perfect calm and peace 
And drowsy somnolence, we love you well: 
Fields, woods, and gardens own your lulling spell, 
And nature from her labors finds surcease. 
On high slow drifts the soft cloud's billowy fleece, 
Within the lily's golden-dusty cell 
The bees are murmuring, the ring-doves tell 
Their evening sorrow, and the farm's increase 
Wafts from the bursting mows its odors sweet. 

The sheep-bells tinkle faintly on the hills, 
And where the vales are swooning in the heat 
Upon his droning lute the locust shrills. 
O balmy Summer, dear thy soft repose 
As is the fragrance of thy sweetest rose ! 

"y IS golden Autumn, and a mellow haze 
Envelops all the dreamy countryside; 
Soon o'er the world will creep a crimson tide 
Of fairy fire and set the woods ablaze 
With sullen splendor. By the dusty ways 
The golden-rod is drooping, and beside 
The wall the grapes are swelling in their pride 
Of purple lusciousness. The droAvsy days 
Are almost silent, save where orchard trees 

Are dropping down their ripe and ruddy store. 
Or where the farmer beats the threshing-floor 
With rhythmic flail. Sweet nature's symbols these. 
That mark the evening of the dying year 
And prelude the approach of winter drear. 


A May -Day Invitation 


V[ OW earth Avithin the arms of Winter old 
Is softly slumbering, and deep and warm 
The mantle lies that shields her tender form 
From bitter blast and storm and numbing cold. 
Upland and meadow, sombre wood and wold, 
All silent lie beneath the frost-king's charm; 
O'er every frozen stream and sleeping farm 
The mage's spell is laid. Like ruddy gold 
Low swings the sun in waning afternoon 
Down towards the world's blue edge ; then comes the moon 
And silvers all the land with fairy light. 

Within, the hearth glows warm, and 'tis the time 
Of fireside joys, when gentle hearts are bright 
And beat as sweetly as the sleigh-bells' chime, 

{To C. F. J.) 
^OME, let us leave the busy town 

And to the country hasten down, — 
We'll go this very day ! 
The hills and dales are deckt with green, 
On every bush the buds are seen, 
And all the countryside is sweet with May, 

What pleasure can the city yield 
When every grove and verdant field 

Is drest in spring array.'* 
Or who would wish a dusty street 
When he can rest his weary feet 
In meadows odorous with flowery May.'' 

The robin plumes his ruddy breast. 
And to his mate upon the nest 

He sings a roundelay; 
And all' the golden afternoon 
The blue-bird pipes his happy tune 
And flits among the fragrant fields of May. 

W hit tier s Birthday 

The violets empearled with dew 
Reflect the heaven's perfect blue, 

The tulips softly sway ; 
The primrose haunts the woodland hills, 
And golden-hearted daffodils 
Dance gaily in the balmy winds of May. 

The orchards are a lovely sight, — 

The trees embowered in pink and white, 

Each like a great bouquet ; 
And wide they spread their spicy scent 
Till all the air is redolent, 
And O, we wish that it were always May ! 

The city bindeth men with care, — 
Engaged in this and that affair 
They wear their lives away ; 
But in the country's leafy lanes 
Simplicity securely reigns, — 
Care sorteth not with happy-hearted May. 

Then leave thy desk and come along, 
We'll go and hear the robin's song, — 

Let's haste without delay ! 
We'll drink a draught of morning dew. 
And wandering the meadows through 
We'll see the country girls bring in the May. 


T^EAR Friend, we come to yield anew 

^^^ The reverence we owe thy name, 
And celebrate with fresh acclaim 

Our Quaker Poet, strong and true. 

For though there needs no day of praise 
For him who held with all his sect 
That love and honor and respect 

Belong alike to all our days, — 


Whittier s Birthday 

Yet do wc love in special wise 
To celebrate his natpl day, 
And, pausing in our onward way, 

Look back awhile with reverent eyes 

Upon his long and noble life, 
A life as blameless and serene 
As yet the world has ever seen, — 

Yet one that had its doubts and strife. 

Its martyrdom to sternest duty 

In days when men were weak with fear, 
A life that grew from year to 3^ear 

Nearer the type of godly beauty. 

Lowly his birth, his fortunes low, 
His kin a plain and simple folk; 
The weight of toil and labor's yoke 

He learned from early years to know. 

And yet there blossomed in his heart 
A passion native-born and strong, 
That made him love the poet's song 

And practise it with homely art. 

A ' barefoot boy ' he oft would climb. 
In lonely mood, his favorite height. 
And, gazing o'er the hills, recite 

The songs of Burns, or set to rhyme 

His thoughts of fields and woods below, 
The grassy meads and joyous brooks. 
The flowery banks and sylvan nooks, 

And the blue river's peaceful flow. 

And as he strengthened day by day 
His touch upon the lyric string. 
The world was glad to hear him sing. 

This nightingale in Quaker gray. 

But when there swept across the land 
The ebb and flow of Freedom's tide. 
The tuneful harp was laid aside, 

And Whittier stood hand in hand 

Whittier s Birthday 

With those great comrades true and brave 
Who led the van of that crusade 
Which cleansed the sullied land and made 

A freeman of the shackled slave. 

'Twas then he shone upon our sight 
A second Milton among men, 
The poet scourging with his pen 

The enemies of truth and right. 

And still like that great Puritan — 
When peace succeeded iron war, 
He donned his singing robes once more. 

And, newly heartened by the span 

Of those dark years, he sang with tone 
So full of hope, so large and free, 
It made the mourning nation see 

That o'er the hills the sun still shone. 

He sang in songs of many keys, — 
He sang of home and sweet content. 
And through his verses came the scent 

Of flowers, and sounds of birds and bees. 

He sang of duty, faith, and love. 
He sang the brotherhood of man. 
And ever shorter made the span 

That parts us from the life above. 

The life above, — ah, it is thine, 

Dear Heart, for, ever through the years, 
Through all thy human hopes and fears, 

There gleamed a spirit half divine, — 

A spirit that in all its moods 

Of joy and grief obeyed the Light, 
That read the laAVS of God aright 

And followed the Beatitudes. 

His creed, — and who shall name his creed.? — 
If so we may those feelings call 



That were too wide foi* ritual, 
That asked no priest to intercede 
With service born of man's device, — 
But rested in the faith content 
That God is good, that reverent 
And upright living is the price 
Of joy beyond. So while he stood 
Within the faith his fathers held. 
His great and loving heart out-welled 
Towards all the human brotherhood. 

gentle Friend, serene and strong, 
O Poet, sweet and tender-true. 
Thy work was such as martyrs do. 

Thy life one grand and noble song! 

{To C. F. J. and M. C. J.) 
nPHE day is fair, the breeze is free. 

The ship has crossed the bar. 
And you are fleeting o'er the sea 

To lands that lie afar. 
My fancy to old England turns. 

As o'er the deep you fare, 

And memory the picture brings 

Of all that waits you there. 

1 see the velvet meadows walled 

With hedges deep and green. 
The lordly forest trees that mark 

The nobleman's demesne ; 
The gray old church and Norman tower 

Embosomed deep in trees. 
The fields aflame with poppy-heads 

"Where flit the drowsy bees ; 
The stately minster's Gothic pile, 

The noble heritage 
Bequeathed us by the living faith 

That stirred the Middle Age; 



Old gardens and old village inns 

With all their old-time charm, 
And ancient coaching-roads that wind 

By ancient garth and farm. 
By Cam's and Isis' banks I see 

The hoary college towns, 
Where cloistered scholars pace the walks 

In mediaeval gowns ; 
Where silver-chiming vesper bells 

Peal from a score of spires. 
And glorious anthems soar on high 

. From snowy-vested choirs ; 
Where old libraries, oaken-ceiled 

And dim with Learning's haze, 
Entice the traveller to stay 

And dream away his days. 

And over all that storied land. 

By every burgh and mere. 
Are spots that poets' lines or lives 

Have made forever dear. 
Westmoreland's peaks majestic are. 

And fair each lake and fell. 
But doubled is their beauty now 

That Wordsworth here did dwell. 
His great heart was in harmony 

With nature's graver moods, 
And in his song he showed the soul 

Of these sweet solitudes. 
And now he sleeps in Grasmere vale, 

The Botha's bank beside, 
But still his calm, sweet voice is heard 

As is the Botha's tide. 

The level moors of Lincolnshire 

Recall a later name. 
The peerless laureate who sang 

Of Celtic Arthur's fame. 



Across these downs he wandered oft, 

By beck and lonely dune ; 
He loved their sombre beauty well, — 

They set his heart atune. 
And ever in the after years 

These boyhood scenes were dear, 
And through his every song there floats 

Some breath of Lincolnshire. 

In ancient Stratford's holy fane 

Immortal Shakespeare sleeps, 
And placid Avon by his grave 

Her silent vigil keeps. 
His native county's name will aye 

With his own name entwine; 
His fancy drew no fairer scenes. 

Green Warwickshire, than thine. 
Thy peaceful fields and silver streams 

Upon his page we find; 
Thy woods are like the Arcady 

Where dwelt sweet Rosalind. 

As in the rural lanes you roam 

Of olden Devonshire, 
The echoes of the golden harp 

Of Herrick you may hear. 
Beside these brooks he loved to pipe 

In summer's dreamy hours, 
And watch the hock-cart coming in 

Engarlanded with flowers. 
Along these leafy lanes he trudged 

To wassail and to wake. 
Or w^here the rosy country girls 

Swung through the barley-break. 
Old Devon's flowery meads and dales 

Can never withered be, 


A Dream of Other Days 

For Herrick shed on them the dew 
Of immortality ! 

And so o'er all that ancient land, 

From Cornwall to the Tweed, 
Her poets' names are ever green. 

And to this day, indeed, 
Along the Canterbury road 

With Chaucer we may ride. 
Or pace the placid Ouse's bank 

By pensive Cowper's side; 
In stately Penshurst's summer woods 

With courtly Sidney stray. 
Or muse beneath the church-yard elms 

With meditative Gray. 

Fair are the fields of sunny France, 

And fair is Italy, 
But dearest is the love we bear. 

Sweet English land, to thee. 
Thy Saxon blood we share, and all 

Thine ancient memories ; 
To thee with filial love we look 

Across the orient seas. 
We love thine old ancestral worth 

Throughout the ages long. 
But most we love thee for thy wealth 

Of glorious English Song! 


T FELL asleep upon a summer's day 

As on a shady woodland bank I lay. 
And as I slept there came to me a dream 
Of days of eldest time. The land did seem ' 
Lovely and happy with a strange delight ; 
All round were floAvery fields and regions bright, 
Enchanted groves, and brooks that danced in glee 
Down ferny slopes to meet the silver sea 


A Dream of Other Days 

Far in the west. There spiced zephyrs played, 
And birds of wondrous plumage charmed the ear in every 

And in that lovely land there dwelt a race 

Of godlike youths and maidens ; every face 

Was glowing with a comeliness divine. 

There moved the beings of Olympic line, 

Tall gods and goddesses, among the bloom 

Of dim Hesperian trees that spread a gloom 

Of purple shade around; great heroes, too, 

And all the sylvan folk that Hellas knew, — 

Dryads and fauns and nymphs in beauty's glory. 

And every fair familiar form that lives in ancient story. 

Divine Apollo sat within the shade 

Among his flocks, and on twin pipes he played 

Such strains as held his fleecy audience rapt ; 

The trees bent low to hear, the fountain lapt 

Its marge in joy, and all the air was thrilled. 

And then I heard the distance faintly filled 

By Orpheus, as in echo to his sire. 

Where, to the weeping of his plaintive lyre, 

He strayed slow-footed down the grassy lea. 

And ever sadly moaned, 'Eurydice ! Eurydice 1* 

Across the silver tides of that far sea 
Young Jason, dauntless prince of Thessaly, 
Fared in his questing of the Golden Fleece. 
With him were ranged the chiefs of early Greece, 
Castor and Pollux, mighty Heracles, 
Theseus, and Meleager, and with these 
Full many another; while the Argo broke 
The virgin billows with her sacred oak, 
The comrades smiting with the ashen oar 
Those wondering seas whose waters ne'er had seen a ship 


A Dream of Other Days 

Beside a woodland fountain's turfy shore 

I saw a youth who, ever bending o'er 

The watery mirror, seemed with his sweet grace 

To lend a two-fold beauty to the place. 

Ah, foolish boy, will never maiden prize 

A look of love from those soft violet ej'^es? 

In Hellas there are girlish charms as fair 

As is the picture which thou watchest there; — 

Shall it be said Narcissus took no bride. 

But ever loved an imaged shape and in his folly died? 

And there the great Odysseus did I see, 

Recounting to the fair Penelope 

And to the Grecian heroes gathered round. 

The tales of all the wonders he had found 

In that far voyage of his, — the Lotus-land, 

Of Circe's spells which men may not withstand 

Save by advice divine, the Sun-god's isle. 

And of the Sirens with their luring wile; — 

And long and loud those goodly heroes laughed 

To hear how Polyphemus was outdone by human craft ! 

Of Scylla and Charybdis all the tale 

He told to them, and every face was pale 

O'er that untoward hap ; and then he turned 

And pictured all he saw when he sojourned 

In that PhcTacian realm, where summer knows 

Not any ceasing and where ceaseless grows 

The peerless fruitage by the palace wall. 

And when Odysseus had related all, — 

* O come, my comrades, come ! ' I heard him cry, 

' We'll sail unto the Earthly Paradise ere yet we die ! * 

Two beings there whose beauty none ma}' tell 
Went hand in hand among the asphodel, 
Cupid and Psyche, an immortal pair; 
Of godlike presence he, and she as fair 


Sweet Spring is Here 

As Cvtherea's self. O gentle bride, 

patient pilgrim-soul so sorely tried ! — 
Hasting with tireless step through regions dread, 
O'er mountains wild and down among the dead, — 
Till Love divine to crown thy Faith was given, 

And through thy earthly trials thou found'st eternal joy 
in heaven! 

When night came down and spread its perfect peace 
Upon that dreamland picture of old Greece, 

1 cast my eyes along a mountain side, 
And there within a sacred cave espied 

A beauteous shepherd youth who lay aswoon 

In slumberous repose. Low swung the moon, 

And Luna leaning from her silver car 

Just touched his drowsy lips, then sped afar 

Across the starry heights, — while from that kiss 

Endymion sleeping smiled as conscious of immortal bliss. 

When now at length the soft moon veiled her light 

Behind the Avails of Latmos' snowy height. 

And rosy Dawn proclaimed another day, — 

My lovely vision faded all away. 

Goddess and nymph and hero ; — but to me 

Was left the fragrance of their memory, 

A dower sweet ; yet with it sad regret 

At thought that human kind may never yet 

Again, as in the glorious days of old. 

Commune with the divinities of that fair Age of Gold. 


QWEET spring is here, and o'er the earth 

^ A verdant garb is seen. 

As drenched in balm of April rains 

The fields put on their green. 
The apple-orchards, all transformed, 

Are wrapt in clouds of bloom, 


Sweet Spring is Here 

And here the robin loves to swing and breathe the rare 

The dandelions by thousands gleam, 

And every little one 
Seems, with its round of golden rays. 

Like to a fairy sun. 
The tulips burn with crimson flame 

Along each narrow bed, — 
Like dainty elfin lamps they glow, and light the lawn with 

The violets uplift their heads 

And star the grass with blue, 
The daffodils hold up their cups 

To catch the morning dew. 
The small Ma^^-apple spreads abroad 

Its leafy little tent, 
And with the jasmine's balmy breath the vale is redolent. 

Beside the sylvan banks unseen 

Shy Quaker-ladies blow, 
And on the hill the blood-root spreads 

Her drifts of vernal snow. 
From oak-tree roots the primrose runs. 

And paints with paly gold 
The carpeting of withered leaves that clothes the sombre 

Where is the dear hepatica 

With its sweet baby face.^* 
There, in the shadow of the wood, 

It peeps with modest grace. 
And near it is that child of spring. 

The pale anemone, 
Wliile in the mossy dell the fern uprears her tiny tree. 

Down by the pond 'tis like a camp 
Of mimic state, I ween, 


/;/ B/ossoPi-Time 

For all the tender willows stand 

Pavilioned o'er with green. 
Wild honeysuckles pour their scent 

Upon the woodland breeze, 
And tempt from far-off pasture fields the golden-belted 

The crocuses and hyacinths. 

Sweet infants of the year. 
Show dainty faces dimmed at dawn 

With many a dewy tear. 
The hedges of japonica 

Have donned their spring attire, 
And border all the grassy lawn with walls of flowery fire. 

The orchards, lanes, and meadows all 

Are odorous with May, 
And every happy little bird 

Is carolling his lay. 
The hills and valleys, woods and streams 

Are smiling far and near. 
And all the world is filled with joy because sweet Spring 
is here. 


T N blossom-time the orchard trees. 
Aroused by April's balmy breeze, 

In loveliness are glowing; 
All blushing with their rosy bloom, 
They lade the winds with faint perfume 

That over them are blowing. 

I watched them in their dawning fair, 
I watch them as they fill the air 

With petals earthward snowing; 
And as I see their branches thinned 
And stript by every passing wind, 

I mourn at that quick going. 













those little lovers of the 





HEN the rising sun is tinting 
All the sky with opal hue, 
Comes the sweet Aurora tripping 
For her morning draught of dew. 

There she quaffs the rose's nectar, 
And the morning-glory's wine; 

Hyacinthine honey sips she, 
Vowing it a drink divine. 

And the lovely flowers regretful 
As they see her go away, 

Sighing forth their gentle sorrow. 
Breathe a fragrance all the day. 


"p'RAIL children of the early spring, 
We love you well; 
Ye seem to tell 
By your rathe blossoming, 
That time of leaf and bud and fruit is coming. 


The Fairy Sky 

First-born are ye of all the flowers, 

Ye gentle ones ; 

Sweet April runs 
Her course of dewy hours 
Heart-happy that she saw your early coming. 

Close on late snows 3'our blooms are seen, 

Pale vernal things; 

The robin sings, 
The grass grows rain^^-green. 
And all the world awakens at your coming. 

When golden June scents all the air 

With her sweet rose, 

And lovely glows 
Each bed, we'll still declare 
'Tis not more dear than was your springtime coming ! 


A BAND of sweet blue violets. 

All on an April day. 
Went down into a sylvan dell 

At hide-and-seek to play. 
But while they played a bat flew by, 

Which gave them such a fright 
That every little countenance 
Was changed to milky white ! 


A BOVE a glassy woodland pool 

Queen Mab her body bent. 
And saw her face, a lovely moon. 

In that small firmament. 
And for the stars the spangles all 

That on her robe did shine 
Made such a twinkling there, I vow 
Was ne'er a sky so fine ! 


The Fairies' Supper 


'y HE snow-drop, pearly white of hue, 

Each morning sheds a fragrant dew, 
Which httle goblins come and get 
And use to bait their beetle-net. 


T SAID unto a lovely rose 

That in my garden grew, 
* When chilly Autumn comes around, 

Sweet rose, what will you do ? ' 
Said she, ' When Autumn breezes blow 

I'll rain my petals down, 
And on them little brookside elves 

Will sail to Fairy Town.' 


A^JHEN fairy-folk sit down to sup 

Each has for plate a buttercup, 
And for mug a tiny cell 
Of the delicate blue-bell 
Filled with dew-drops of the rose 
Gathered when her buds unclose. 
I ween it is a witching sight 
To see each bonny little sprite 
Seated at the mushroom board 
All with toothsome dainties stored. 
Here are plates of cricket meat 
Dressed with sauce of clover sweet. 
Appetizing little pies 
Made of wings of bottle-flies ; 
Omelet of emmet's eggs. 
Fricassee of beetles' legs. 
Liver of the bumble-bee. 
And ragout of chickadee ; 


The Fairies' Supper 

Barbecue of lady-birds, 
And nut-shells filled with creamy curds 
Pilfered while the dairy-girl 
Gossiped with the farmer's churl. 

The chalice of a daffodil 
Is their great bowl, which they fill 
With syrup of the wild strawberries 
Much esteemed by all the fairies. 
Here are gnats' wings, and by these 
Many little loaves of cheese 
Made of daisies' golden eyes, — 
Tadpole tongues of smallest size, 
Tiny seed-cakes with their tops 
Gemmed with honeysuckle drops, 
Salad made of violets blue 
Moistened o'er with April dew, 
And the roe of small brook-fishes 
Served on pink rose-petal dishes. 
Strips of candied gad-fly's wing ; — 
And many another dainty thing 
Only to be named aright 
By those who have the fairy sight. 

While these wee folk feast away 
They are cheered by music gay, 
For behind the soft sweet-fern. 
Where the fire-fly lanterns burn, 
Is the band of players hid. 
There the green-robed katydid 
Tweedles on his violin 
Elfin-music high and thin; 
The cricket blows his dulcet flute, 
And the locust on his lute 
Strums a droning monotone. 
And silvery melodies are blown 
On the little lily horns ; 
While on shells of small acorns 

Cherry Blossoms 

Stretched across with skin of plum 
Little drummers briskly drum, 
Pigwiggin deftly keeping time 
With his little hare-bell chime. 

All the fairies shout with glee 
At the dainty minstrelsy ; 
And the supper being ended, 
Each sylph by an elf attended, 
The}^ pace among the mossy glades 
Listening to the serenades 
And sonatas soft and Ioav, 
Till the stars begin to glow, — 
When at Oberon's command 
The tiny company disband. 
To ply the tasks with merry cheer 
Set them by their sovereign dear. 


"V\7HEN showers make the woods all wet 

The tiny wood-folk run and get 
Beneath a mushroom's sheltering eaves, 
And there on beds of violet leaves 
They sleep secure till cease of rain 
Sends them forth to play again. 



RAMBLED in an orchard old 
Where gentle winds were blowing. 
And saw the blooming cherry trees 

Their petals downward snowing. 
' O stay, sweet blossoms ! ' cried I then, 

' Withhold 3^our wasteful showers ; — 
Why will ye scatter thus and fade, 

Ye dainty cherry-flowers? 
As when in some fond dream we see 

That die which most we cherish, 


The Fairy Crown 

So when we love 3'ou best, alas, 
Ye flutter down and perish ! ' 


T SAT beside a forest pool, 

And there I chanced to see 
Come sweeping o'er the tiny tide 

A fleet from Faerie. 
The ships were shells of hazel-nuts 

That grow in greenwood dales ; 
Rose-petals on pine-needle masts 

Did serve them for their sails. 
The tiny navy moved in state 

Before a zeph}^' light, 
And as it swept along, I trow. 

It was a winsome sight ! 
But when the little admiral 

Did through his glass spy me. 
He turned and with his tiny fleet 

Fled far o'er that small sea ! 


T^HE blue-bell hourly rings her chime 

To let the fairies know the time. 
She rings it all the long night through 
From set of sun till death of dew ; 
She rings it through the livelong day, — 
And every little elf and fay 
Prepares his meals and feeds his flock 
By this same dainty little clock. 


T MET three fays within a wood 

As I was walking there. 
Who wove a coronal of fern 
Commixed with maidenhair. 




' What make ye here, sweet maids,' I cried, 

* With this your dainty craft? ' 
Whereat the fairest of the three 

Looked up and sweetly laughed, 
And said, ' This leafy crown we weave 

To set upon the head 
Of our dear Queen, who at dew-fall 

With Oberon will wed.' 


C\ PERFECT flowers of sweet midsummer da3's, 

The season's emblems 3'e, 

As nodding lazily 
Ye kiss to sleep each breeze that near you strays, 

And soothe the tired gazer's sense 
With lulling surges of your softest somnolence. 

Like fairy lamps ye light the garden bed 

With tender ruby glow. 

Not any flowers that blow 
Can match the glory of your gleaming red ; 

Such sunny-warm and dreamy hue 
Before j^e lit your fires no garden ever knew. 

Bright are the blossoms of the scarlet sage, 

And bright the velvet vest 

On the nasturtium's breast; 
Bright are the tulips when they reddest rage. 

And bright the coreopsis' eye; — 
But none of all can with your brilliant beauty vie. 

O soft and slumberous flowers, we love you well ; 

Your glorious crimson tide 

The mossy walk beside 
Holds all the garden in its drowsy spell; 

And walking there we gladly bless 
Your queenly grace and all your languorous loveliness. 


The Fairies in the Dairies 


P IGWIGGIN once a-napping lay 

Pavilioned in the shade 
Of a rose-tree, whose petals fell 

And him all overlaid. 
But when he woke and found himself 

Deep in the rosy rain, 
He got him up and scampered off 

From where he late had lain. 



N the starlight kindly fairies 
Gathering the elder-berries 
Make of them an ink, 
Which in cups of crocus steeping 
Bear they where sweet maids are sleeping 
And paint their cheeks all pink ! 


T N the night-time come the fairies 
Breaking into farmers' dairies, 
Each one with a lantern bright 
Of a glow-worm's shining light. 
First they spread a golden gleam 
O'er the milk and make it cream, 
Giving it a taste more fine 
Than their own most dainty wine. 
Then they wrap the curded milk 
In filters fine of cobweb silk ; — 
This they take and quickly squeeze 
Into loaves of gilt-edge cheese, 
Which they skilfully dispose 
Down the dairy-bench in rows. 
Next, with neither noise nor clutter, 
Fashion they the golden butter, 


The Death of the Bee 

In a trice by magic power 
Making that which costs an hour 
Of weary work and many a turn 
To the milk-maid with her churn. 
Then having moulded it in presses, 
They lay it on soft water-cresses, 
And sprinkle it with sweetened dew 
Gathered from the violets blue. 

When their work is deftly done 
Ere the rising of the sun. 
To the garden out they go 
Where the dainty pansies grow. 
Here they hold their sprightly dance 
In and out among the plants, 
Footing featly to the tune 
Of the locust's small bassoon 
And Pigwiggin's purling whistle 
Whittled from a spike of thistle. 
Accompanied by pipers three 
On their oat-straw pipes so wee. 
When morning 'gins to light the sky. 
To their woodland homes they hie ; 
In their rose-leaf beds they creep 
And soon are sunk in balmy sleep. 
Each little head upon a pillow 
Of a downy pussy-willow. 



LITTLE bee in search of sweets 
Flew in a lily's bell. 
And revelled in the lusciousness 

Of that soft honeyed cell. 
But as he sipped the nectary, 

O'ercome with rich perfume, 

He fainted unto death and lay 

For aye embalmed in bloom ! 


To Mercu?y 


gWEET baby faces do I see 

Along the garden beds, 
With pretty caps of velveteen 

Upon their daint}' heads. 
Some purple are and some are blue, 

And some are golden yellow, 
With tiny neckerchief of green 

For ever}^ little fellow. 
The children of the garden they, 

So gladsome and so merry, 
And every one is tended by 

A loving little fairy. 


'l\/'ITHIN a dewy woodland dell 

I spied a Quaker-lady; 
Her home was on a mossy bank 
Where all was cool and shady. 

And as I saw her sitting there 

So sweetly and demurely, 
I said, 'There's peace within thy heart. 

Dear Quaker-lady, surely ! ' 


(Horace, I., 10) 

Q SUASIVE son of Atlas' line. 

Dear, artful Mercury, 'twas thine 
To teach the fathers of the race 
A smoother speech, a gentler grace. 
Thou messenger of mighty Jove 
And all the gods that dwell above, 
To thee I sing, O subtle sire 
Alike of thieves and of the lyre! 


To Virgil 

Apollo, once, reft of his quiver, 

With threatening mandates made thee shiver; 

Yet angry as he was, he laughed 

At thy ox-stealing, infant craft. 

Rich Priam, aided by thy wile. 

The proud Atridas did beguile; 

Thessalian watch-fires burned in vain. 

Unharmed he crossed the hostile plain. 

All righteous souls are borne along 
To realms of bliss, an airy throng. 
Led by that golden rod of thine, 
O loved of all the race divine, 
Sweet Mercury ! 



(Horace, I., 24) 

HY checked or hidden need our sorrows be 
For one so fondly loved .f* Melpomene, 

God-gifted mistress of the moving lyre 

And melting voice, my melancholy strains inspire! 

And does our dear Quintilius repose 
In death's enduring sleep.'' Ah, when shall those 
Twin sisters Faith and Justice, Truth severe. 
And Modesty another find that is his peer ! 

Bewept of all the noble was his end. 
But chiefest wept of thee, his fondest friend. 
My Virgil. Yet thy prayers, alas, are vain 
That ask the gods to lend Quintilius again. 

What though thy music's magic far excel 

That Orphean lute which held the trees in spell, — 

Yet never, never can the Ijfe be made 

To stir again the pulses of that empty shade, 


To Calliope 

Which Mercury, relentless of our doom, 
Drives on before him to the realms of gloom. 
Hard fate indeed! But what we cannot cure 
Is better borne if we but patientl}^ endure. 

(Horace, III., 4) 
A LENGTHENED strain. Calliope, 

Melodious queen, descend and sing, 
With plaintive pipe or shrilling voice. 

If so it please, or on Phcjebean string! 
Hear ye, or am I made the sport 

Of raptures sweet.'* I seem to hear. 
And stray through hallowed groves, the seat 
Of playful winds and pleasant waters clear. 

In childhood's hour, when tired with play 

I dreaming lay on Voltur's steep. 
Far from my home, the storied doves 

Embowered my bed with leaves, a verdant heap. 
A thing of wonder 'twas to all 

Who habit Acherontia's tops. 
Or have their homes in loamy meads 

Of low Forentum or 'mid Bantine copse — 

How, safe from bears and vipers fell, 

A god-protected child I lay 
And fearless slept, while I was strewn 

With gathered myrtle and with sacred bay. 
Yours, O ye Muses, yours I am. 

If now the Sabine heights I scale, 
Or if I jo}' in Tibur's slopes, 

Or Baiae's strand, or cool Praeneste's vale. 
Because I love your founts and choirs 

Philippi's rout destroyed not me, — 
Nor tree accursed, nor beetling rocks 

Of Palinurus in the stormy sea. 

» « 4|t « 


To Horace 


(Horace, HI., 13) 

r\ FOUNT that dost the glass outshme, 

May flagons wreathed with flowers be thine ! 
To-morrow I shall give to thee 
A kid, whose forehead swelling free 
In vain foretokens war and love. 

Child of the flocks that frisk and play, — • 
His budding life shall ebb away, 
To color like the rosy wine 
Thy surface cool and crystalline. 

Fierce, burning Sirius knows thee not; 
The plough-worn oxen seek the spot 
Where thy sweet water flecked with foam 
Refreshes all the race that roam. 

I'll rank thy name 

With founts of fame. 
While singing of the ilex tall 
That overhangs thy waterfall, 

Bandusian Spring! 


One dreamy April day I roved from Rome 
To seek thy sylvan home 
On hills green with the olive and the vine 
By that loved farjn of thine. 

Thy little valley beautiful and wild. 

Thy fountain undefled, — 

All as in thy immortal song did seem. 

still with joy I dream 

In recollection of the happy hours 
When. from thy verses' flowers 

1 drank the honey of thy golden balm 
And sweet poetic calm. 


The Brandywine 

Dedicated to Carolien Hayes 

Beneath whose gentle smile the hoy first learned 
To love the viusic of the tranquil Stream 
That winds among our dear ancestral fields, 
Refiecting in its heart the willows old. 
The green hill-pastures and the peaceful clouds. 

"I lie as lies yon placid Brandywine 
Holding the hills and heavens in my heart 
For contemplation." 

— Sidney Lanier 


EAR Stream of Beauty, — famed from olden time, 
Renowned in annals of our early days ; 
Stream by whose banks the ancient Indians dwelt, 
And on thy waters plied their swift canoes, 
And in thy woodlands tracked the fleeting deer; — 
Wawassan called by those red foresters, 
Or Susqueco, as other legends say: 
Stream on whose shores our fathers fought and fell, 
Immortally remembered with the name 
Of Washington, — and Wayne, our county's pride, — 
And glorious Lafayette, — and many more, 
Whose memories romantic shall not die, 
Forever in our grateful hearts enshrined: 

The Brandy wine 

Dear Stream of Beauty, — ^loved of poets all ; 
Dear to our Taylor in his ardent youth; 
The joyous theme of Read and Everhart; 
And sung by him from out the southern land, 
Lanier, the lover of all loveliness : 
Dear Stream of Beauty, — flowing gently down 
Among the windings of my native hills, 
Gathering from all thy tributary brooks 
A richer force, and bearing from far heights 
Eternal tidings to the hoary sea: — 
Thee would I celebrate. O fill my page 
With thy soft music, and vouchsafe to grant, 
In measurement however small, the power 
To picture with a true and loving hand 
Thy visionary beauty calm and sweet ! 

A song of gratitude is mine, for since 

In boyhood's hour I rambled on thy banks 

And bathed or angled in thy peaceful pools. 

My love has been for thee; and later daj^s 

Have but enhanced the joy thy presence gave. 

Youth's golden years and seasons of delight. 

Its happy fantasies and dreamings high. 

Were brighter yet for thy companionship ; 

Thy rocks and shadowy groves, thy daisied fields. 

Deep pastoral solitudes and placid vales. 

And all the voices of thy hundred hills, 

Did speak in memorable accents, rich 

With messages from Nature's inner heart. 

Among thy sunny meadows first I breathed 

The joyousness, the passion that delights 

In all the tranquil loveliness and charm 

Of field and dell, of tree and stream and sky. 

Blue misty hill and dreamy woodland soft. 

Life-giving sunshine and the fragrant rain. 

The dew-drops twinkling on the grass and leaves, 


The Brandy wine 

The billowy clouds, — soft islands of the air, — 
Morn's tender radiance, the hushed repose 
Of forest sanctuaries, and the songs 
Of warbling birds, wild Nature's choristers ; 
May's vernal freshness exquisitely fair, 
The sunny summer-tide of poppied ease, 
The gorgeous autumn's melancholy grace, 
And all the beauty of the rural world. 
How many happy hearts have thus been led 
To close communion with earth's lovely forms. 
Beloved Brandywine, and who would not 
Record with grateful voice the debt of joy. 
Of pure unfading joy and rapture high, 
Whose first awakening he owes to thee ! 

Born of the distant hills and northern woods. 

And wandering wide throughout a fertile land, 

Bringer art thou of richest fruitfulness. 

Abundant harvests and the laden bough. 

Full-handed plenty follows all thy course, 

And thou art blessed by'thankful multitudes 

Who love thy placid beauty well, and hold 

In fond regard thy ever-winding stream. 

Each quiet little gulf and gleaming bay, 

From those high crystal springs that give thee birth 

To thy last reach in Delaware's far fields. 

For whether hastening with murmurous song 

Down pebble-fretted slopes, or lingering 

In tranquil majesty along thy deeps, 

A kindly influence is ever thine. 

No fairer meadows or more fertile farms 

Are known than those thy quiet currents lave. 

Thy mellow acres yield their rich increase 

Of clover, corn, and gently waving wheat ; 

Sleek-coated cattle graze upon thy meads. 

The sweetest flowers cluster by thy banks 

And waft their incense from a thousand vales. 


The Brandy wine 

The old farmsteads upon thy grassy slopes 
Are homes of a contented people, proud 
To till the acres which their fathers held 
Ere that red day on Birmingham's high hills. 
Here old-time faith and manners are not dead; 
Calm da3's and nights fill out the tranquil year ; 
Simplicity hath here her dwelling-place, 
And all is pastoral happiness and peace. 

Far from hot pavements and the vexing cares 

Of crowded marts thy quiet waters flow, — 

By silent groves and soft id3'llic glades, 

By upland slopes where wild strawberries grow. 

And meadows green with spicy peppermint ; 

By banks where bloom the cowslips named for thee, 

And fields of crimson clover where the bees 

Are gleaning fragrant harvests all the day : 

Now loitering many a cool and shady mile 

By woodland aisles and sylvan corridors. 

Where moss and tangled fern clothe all thy banks 

With softest green, and little' fairy groves 

Of dainty maidenhair sway in the breeze ; 

Now drifting quietly in sheltered pools 

And fords where mild-eyed cattle seek the shade ; 

Now issuing forth into the gleaming day 

And rollicking Avith silver laughter down 

In foamy waterfalls, across whose breast 

The tiny rainbow bend its jewelled bars. 

Then winding forth again thou dost caress 

The whispering reeds that line thy small lagoons, 

And water-grasses whose long amber arms 

Wave ceaselessly along thy currents clear. 

And oft thy forceful waters are restrained 
And sent along the full, rush-margined race. 
To turn the mossy, ever-dripping wheel 
Of some loud-droning mill among the trees. 


The Brandy wine 

What pleasure, pausing here, to peer within 
The olden chambers dim with dusty meal, — 
To see the portly sacks of new-threshed wheat, 
And yellow corn that almost bursts the bins. 
And hear the mill-wheels grumbling o'er their task 
Of grinding grain for all the countryside ! 

Beneath the arch of many an ancient bridge 

Thy waters move with eddying swirl, untouched 

By languors of the dusty road above. 

In stately march thou sweepest past the fields 

Where ruddy farmers ply their harvest toil, 

Mixing the music of the whetted scythe 

With thy soft murmurs, piling up the rows 

Of dry, sweet-smelling hay, which thence is drawn 

In creaking wagons to the generous mows 

Of old stone barns, — upon whose mossy roofs 

The crimson-footed pigeons sit and croon 

In sober companies ; now wheeling down 

In white-winged circles to the yard below, 

To pick the scattered grains of wheat and oats ; 

Now settling on the eaves with stately pride 

To show the beauty of their burnished necks. 

High overhead the snowy cloud-land floats. 

And in the mirror of thy lucent depths 

Repeats the beauty of its mystic forms, 

Its pearly mountains and its creamy capes, 

And islands drifting through the azure seas. 

How sweet I found it oft on summer days 
To launch my boat, and on thy placid tide 
To drift as do the clouds, without a care 
And full of peace as they. O hour of dreams. 
Of dreams and soft imaginings and fond 
Reflections, — fantasies without a name ! 
Or waking from my revery, 'twas joy 
To send the boat along with eager stroke, 


The Brandy wine 

Rousing thy surface into sparkling rings 

That eddied toward the shore with rhythmic dance. 

Anon I loved to pause with dripping oar, 

And peering into thy transparent deeps, 

To mark the timid fish that hovered there, — 

The silver-sided chub, the dusky bass, 

And little sunfish with their golden scales. 

Now winnowing the water with clear gills, 

Now darting with a flash of purple fin 

Far into watery shades and silent homes 

Of willow roots beneath the sedgy bank, 

Or shadowy chambers in the sunless rocks. 

In drowsy afternoons oft have I heard 
The tiny insect voices by thy shores, — 
The lazy chorus of the katydids, 
The faint, small murmur of the busy gnats 
That dance in fretful clouds above the sands 
That border on thy shallows, and the keen. 
Sweet chirrings of the sleepy locust-kind. 
Those happy idlers of midsummer days. 
There would I muse till misty evening brought 
The clear nocturnal croakings of the frogs 
Sheltered beneath thy overhanging banks. 
Or perched upon green lily-pads afloat 
In star-lit waters of thy waveless coves. 

The tranquil evening hour beside thy stream, — 
What peace and pensive solitude then reign ! 
The herds have left the fields, the harvest-teams 
Long since have gone with their last fragrant loads ; 
Soft vapors o'er the meadows sleep, and all 
Is rest and quietude, save where the dove, 
In some cool covert hid from human eye, 
Grieveth and grieveth all the darkling eve. 
Ah, gentle mourner, what soft pain is thine. 
What tender melancholy stirs thy breast? 


The Brandy wine 

Perchance some old romantic sorrow lies 
About thy heart, or memory of wrong 
Done to thy kind long since in some green vale 
Of dim Thessalian woods. Thy pensive note 
No elegy can match, and thy sweet woe 
Makes memorable the sacred twilight hour. 

An ever-varj'ing poetry is thine, 

O gentle Brandywine ; songs light or grave, 

As fanc3''s changeful ear interprets them. 

Thy crystal-chiming waters sing to me. 

Yet not thy voices only do I hear, 

Soft and mellifluous ever though they be; 

For blending with their harmony the sound 

Of Old World rivers comes across the years, 

And pleasant revery bears me to the banks 

Of Derwent sweet, whose music filled the heart 

Of Wordsworth while as yet a little child ; 

Or silver Duddon, offspring of the clouds ; 

Or honest Walton's peaceful river Lea; 

Or that slow-winding stream, the languid Ouse, 

Well-loved of him who sang of country joys 

In calm reflective verse; or yet again 

To old Dean-Bourne, where by the plashy brink 

Grew Herrick's daffodils whose loveliness 

He made immortal. Yea, and farther yet 

My musings carry me, and echoes faint 

Of reedy-marged Ilissus do I hear 

Murmuring of nymphs and river-deities. 

And all the glory of the violet hills 

That lie around Athena's marble town. 

Athena! ah, the name is here unknown; 
Unheard Cephissus and Ilissus here; 
Thy woodlands are unhauntcd by the nymphs. 
No hamadryads whisper 'mid the leaves 
Of thy tall trees ; nor docs the sportive crew 
Of satyrs range with Pan thy vernal fields. 


The Brandy wine 

No far-descended echoes wake thy hills 
Of that poetic life whose perfect joy 
Made fair unto all time Aegean isle, 
Idalian fount, and Heliconian vale, 
And liveth now but in the faded grace 
Of carven Attic frieze or Grecian urn. 

Nor does the nightingale, lorn Philomel, 

Among the shadows of thy moonlit glades, 

Pour out her old ancestral threnody 

For Itylus through all the summer night. 

Nay, — yet thy thickets have their own sweet bird, 

The poet-bird that keeps his lonely state 

In sylvan cloisters far from eye of man, — 

The dear wood-robin ! Underneath green roofs 

Of forest solitudes what joy to hear 

The liquid fluting of this minstrel rare 

Thrilling the beechen shades with rapturous song! 

Now fading, — now returning, — comes his voice. 

In purling cadence clear as is the plash 

Of sweet-toned rills o'er pebbles smooth and cool. 

Streams of romance and beauty have I known, — 

The lordly Shannon rolling down his tides 

Far in the west of green Hibernia's isle ; 

The tranquil Thames that dreams beside the grey 

And storied walls of Oxford's ancient town, 

And passes on through England's loveliest meads 

By many a hamlet quaint and flower}^ garth; 

The "wandering Po" that waters Lombardy; 

And Rhone's imperial river, icy-pure. 

Bearing a largess from high Alpine fields 

To pour into the lap of the Mid-Sea. 

Yet still with happy heart to thee I turn, 
Beloved Stream, that nourished first my joy 
In rural beauty and idyllic scenes, 
And solitude, that teacher calm and wise. 


The Brandy wine 

Well may fair Chester County's children bless 
Thy tranquil flood that from far northern hills 
Brings fruitfulness to these wide meads and vales, 
And fills the fields with verdure rich and deep. 
The soul and centre thou of every tract 
And fertile township where thy currents flow; 
Each bubbling waterfall, each amber pool. 
Each tributary runnel dimpling down 
From folded hills, confirms thy gentle power. 
Thy peaceful charm and sweet tranquillity. 

Unfading is the loveliness that clings 

Round each familiar scene along thy course: — 

The upland fields of fertile Honeybrook ; 

The willowed banks of pastoral Fallowfield; 

The silent wooded vales of dear Newlin, 

Home of arbutus and primeval pine. 

And its old hillsides where my fathers wrought 

For generations long gone by ; thy shores 

In green Pocopson, haunt of fishermen; 

And pleasant Bradford rich with waving corn; 

And those wide hills of storied Birmingham, 

Where Lafayette, exemplar bright and pure 

Of old noblesse and ancient chivalry, 

Spared not to shed his blood in our high cause. 

And linked his name and Liberty's for aye ! — 

Such beauties and such memories still cling 

Around thy valleys and thy verdant glades, 

Rich pasture-lands and silent, virgin woods. 

Historic hills and loved ancestral farms, — 

From those high crystal springs that give thee birth 

To thy last reach in Delaware's far fields. 

Forever fair, O Brandywine, art thou, 
Forever fair in thine unceasing flow ! — 
A type and symbol unto restless man 
Of calm contentment, and devotion high 


The Brandy wine 

To duty's bidding, — with unceasing flow 
Fulfilling through the years thy destiny. 
The sun in stately majesty doth rise, 
Across wide heaven journeys all the day, 
Fades in the crimson west and disappears ; 
The sickle moon swims high above the woods 
And sheds her radiance o'er the dreaming hills, 
While that lone eremite the evening star 
Comes loitering across the azure fields. 
Each hath his season, each his time of rest: 
But thou unresting art; majestic sun 
And sickle moon and lonely evening star 
In turn are mirrored in thy lucent breast. 
While day and night thou movest on thy way, 
Forever fair in thine unceasing flow ! 

Then blessings on thy heaven-given power 
To cheer the heart of man with lofty joy. 
With joy and sweet content and deepest peace, — 
Dear Stream of Beauty, — flowing gently down 
Among the windings of my native hills, 
Gathering from all thy tributary brooks 
A richer force, and bearing from far heights 
Eternal tidings to the hoary sea! 


Swarthmore Idylls 

Series I 

Dedicated to 

William Hyde Appleton 

Duci docto et dilecto 

These Swarthmore walls that rise toward heaven's blue, 

Etched with memorial green, the ages long 

Will in the dust lay low. But human hearts 

Pure, sweet and strong, are walls invisible. 

Growing more deep and broad in years that touch 

The granite to decay — foundation sure 

For building of the Architect Divine! 

— Elizabeth Powell Bond 


/^ RAY College, on thy green and silent hill, 

Beside thy groves of beech and shadowy spruce, 
O'erlooking many a mile of peaceful field. 
Deep, dreamy wood and river-meadow fair, — 
Thy children love thee well, and he not least 
Who offers now this slender meed of song. 

In thee, Swarthmore, are centered noblest hopes ; — 
Not Avithout spiritual light they planned 
And built, those Quakers of the olden school, 
Here in the sweet and wholesome countryside, 


Free from the city's tumult and its stain, — 

Erecting here by Penn's primeval woods 

An edifice to learning dedicate, 

To science and the high humanities. 

And beauteous arts that nourish mind and soul ; 

Their fair foundation gifting with the name 

Of that old House in ancient Lancashire 

Where Fox, the high-souled Founder of his sect. 

Oft sought retirement from the world's loud noise 

And steeled his godly heart for fresh crusades. 

— And not a few with pilgrim feet have fared 

From this new Swarthmore in the western world 

To that old home and cradle of their faith; 

And on these walls, "etched with memorial green," 

An English ivy grows, fair living link 

Binding our younger Swarthmore to the old. 

Here in the sweet and wholesome countryside, 
Free from the city's tumult and its stain, 
The youth who pays allegiance unto her, 
Our Mother Loved, grows in his loyalty 
As weeks and months go by, and all her peace 
And tranquil beauty fill his finer moods. 
Moulding his consciousness by slow degrees. 
Here, pondering the poetries of old, 
The records and the lore of ages gone. 
He in a measure heritor becomes 
Of ancient men and good, of Socrates, 
Of Virgil, and of Luther, and the sweet 
Assisan, and of many a sage who taught. 
Or bard who sang in accents high, the great 
Imperishable and universal truths. 

Fair is the landscape sloping from thy walls. 
Gray Swarthmore, to the distant river-meads : 
Fair in its springtime mantle soft and green. 
When Krum winds slow by banks of violets ; 



Fair in the autumn when the dreamy mists 

Their glamour lend unto the ripened year; 

Yea, fair in lean midwinter's sombre days 

When all is wrapt in silence weird and white, 

Hamlet and hill and stream and far-off farm, 

And yonder low-eaved West House quaint and old. 

Fair are thy western woods where sinks the sun 

In glory tender and ineffable, — 

Tall western woods where all the summer long 

Stillness prevails and shady solitude. 

In stormy twilights when the year is old 

The swaying trees a mournful music make 

Along those steep wood-slopes ; and warmly housed, 

The cheery student-mates with twofold joy 

Converse, or muse, or find a fresh delight 

In books, those high companions of the soul. 

Each season hath its pleasures, its rewards 
For keen devotions and for studious days ; 
Each season finds the Swarthmore landscape fair 
With beauty and sweet peacefulness, of power 
To soften and make glad the graver hours ; 
But fairest in the young and tremulous days 
When April whitens those old cherry trees 
And wraps the campus all in verdure soft, 
And the dear meadow-lark in dewy grass 
Pours out his clear, pellucid notes of joy; 
While students in the dreamy afternoons 
Read pastoral poets 'neath the bowering trees, 
Or old romances out of Spenser's page. 
Musing in revery, as Arnold mused 
In Oxford's academic solitudes. 
Arnold, — a cherished name in Swarthmore shades ! 
And once among us came that seer august, 
Lingered beneath our trees, and in our halls 
Lifted his sweet, sad voice, bequeathing fair 
Hellenic echoes that can never die. 



• — Wordsworthian music fills this master's page; 

And while in college days are sown the seeds 

Of friendships true and sweet, his idylls twain 

Beloved shall be, and sympathetic youth 

Shall grieve with him for Thyrsis lost from earth. 

As turns some traveler in a distant land 

And dreams of his far home across the seas. 

So we thy children, Swarthmore, dream of thee 

When we have gone from out thy sheltering arms 

To cope with sterner life. Dear memories rise 

In those more pensive hours that haunt us all. 

When by the ingleside on winter nights 

Or in some tender sunset by the sea 

The heart is warmed, — dear memories arise 

Of the loved Quaker college, once the home 

And happy sanctuary of our youth. 

In those more pensive hours old Swarthmore days, 

Fair with the glamour years and distance give, 

Rise up to cheer the meditative heart: — 

The old remembered hours ; the faces dear 

Of class-mates, friends and teachers ; and the scene 

We loved to contemplate in those far days, — 

The peaceful townships sloping to the south. 

With fields and farms and nestling villages. 

And ever-beauteous woodlands fading far 

Into the misty edges of the sky; — 

A hundred recollections like to these 

Make glad those winter evenings by the fire 

Or tender summer sunsets by the sea. 

To these calm precincts age can never come, 

Save as the ivy comes on yonder walls 

To clothe with fadeless green: — ^here Youth abides, 

Here bright Enthusiasm hath her home, 

And Faith and clear-eyed Hope are sisters here! 

— Then, Swarthmore, we thy daughters and thy sons 


Happy College Days of Old 

Still turn to thee and feel the rosy touch 
Of youthful days, the glamour and the glow 
Of golden years and memorable hours. 

Mother Revered, still be thy message given 
With amplest hand ; still be thy children led 
Along the pui'e and consecrated paths 
With Beauty for their talisman and guide; 
Not that "mere beauty" which some men condemn 
And others fear, but Beauty which is one 
With truth and power and widest perfectness, 
Beauty admitting them to fellowship 
With all of pure and high and holiest 
In nature and in spiritual realms, — 
Beauty that wakes to life the harmony 
Which Shakespeare says is in immortal souls ! 


Q HAPPY college days of old, 
And have ye gone forever. 
So rich in memories untold 

And joys that wither never! 
Ah, fair and fadeless were the flowers 
That bloomed for us in those dear hours ! 

O days that never knew a care, 
O days of youth and glory, 

That led by magic paths and fair 
Through summer-lands of story ! 

Across the years your echoes flow. 

Ye golden days of long ago. 

Now over life's wide fields we roam 
With little time for dreaming. 

Yet visions of our college home 
Within our hearts are gleaming. 

O sweet and unforgotten years. 

We see you through our misty tears ! 


Anniversary Oae 

O comrades scattered far and wide, 

By forest or by river, 
By mountain-slope or ocean-tide, — 

One bond shall bind us ever ; 
Old Swarthmore days shall dearer grow 
As o'er the lengthening hills we go. 

Those happy days we yet may see; 

They live in letters golden 
Upon the scrolls of memory 

In records sweet and olden. 
Forever beautiful are they, 
And we shall cherish them for aye ! 





^OT thine, O Swarthmore, is the ripeness yet 

Which long, slow centuries beget ; 
Not thine the glory which gray Oxford knows. 
Nor that old seat by Cam's untroubled tide. 
About their pensive shades abide 
An old-world stateliness and deep repose 
Born of a thousand years of tranquil peace. 
Renowned are they, and fraught 
With beauty from the ages brought. 
— Such guerdon, Swarthmore, as the daj^s increase. 
Thy children wish for thee ! 
But now our song must be 
Of youth, and all the promise golden 
Which in the visions of bright youth is holden. 

Green is the ivy on thy walls. 

And green the slopes whereon thy shadow falls ; 

All that the charmed eye may see. 

Pasture and dale and far-off dreamy tree, 


Anniversary Ode 

In vernal loveliness but speak of thee: 

For thou art yet in thy sweet prime, 

Still in the rosy east thy sun doth climb. 

With verdant coronal th}'^ brows are bound, 

Gathered where April first 

Her fragile fetters burst 

And strewed with starr}'' bloom the greenwood ground. 

Full of the morning's joy I see thee stand, 

Like some fair, new-crowned Queen within a peaceful land ! 

Thy young and happy heart, I know. 

Is oft aglow 

With all that most endears 

Unto the old gray world youth's dewy years, — 

Fond hopes and aspirations high. 

Enduring faith that lets no stormy sky 

Obscure the steady stars whose certain shining 

Thou knowest well ; 

Enduring faith whose gladness no dark spell 

Of sad repining 

Hath power to change or charm away; — 

Preserving fadeless ever and alway 

Pandora's one last precious gift to man. 

That dower from the age Promethean 

The heart of noble youth inspiring 

With loftiest desiring, — 

E'en this young band, hopeful, elate, 

Who stand to-day within thy gate. 

O tell me of the dreams, young Queen of hope. 

That make more tender yet thy tender eyes, 

Here where unclouded skies 

Bend lovingly above the slope 

Of thy dear hill, 

While June's sweet days of silence fill 

Meadow and tremulous glade 

And cloistered aisles of sylvan shade, 


Anniversary Ode 

Wide fields of rippling wheat 

And purple clover fragrant-sweet, — 

With all the mid-year's primal loveliness ; 

Here where with glance serene 

Thou gazest o'er the soft idyllic scene, 

To where the gleaming river's mild caress 

Enfolds the sleeping woods 

With reedy reach and watery solitudes. 

Ah, tell me, doth thy dreaming gaze 

Find in that landscape's sweep. 

Yon river, and the far Atlantic deep. 

Shadows and images of ancient da3's? 

Doth some new-old Rhine-hoard, 

By fairy fingers stored. 

Lie hidden in the depths of that fair stream. 

Filling the pauses of thy dream 

With echoes of the Middle Age remote? 

Or doth the wave-tossed boat 

Of lorn Ulysses plying 

By spectral islands far outlying, 

Sweep o'er the tides of yonder misty sea. 

Fresh-fleeing from the Sirens' witchery? 

Yea ; for I think the present doth not all 

Thy phantasy enthrall; 

Nor doth hard-featured Fact 

Bind thee with metes and measurements exact. 

In man's blind striving for the strange and new 

He hath but little left, 'tis true, 

Of the old pristine glory 

Of myth and magic story: 

The golden harmonies of ancient years 

Fall on insensate ears ; 

Still farther from the old Parnassian shrine 

Our weary way doth lead ; 

Small time have we to heed 


Amiiversary Ode 

The faint, sad voice of oracles divine, 

Whose hollow echoes weep 

Through high Dodona's grove or by lone Delphi's steep! 

Yet while fair Learning's temples still endure 

Man shall not wholly yield unto the lure 

Of pelf. The voice of wisdom shall 

With pleadings musical 

Call him from dusty ways of care. 

Into the still and tranquil air 

Of truths eternal, — teaching him God's word 

Breathed by the waving wood, the joyous bird, 

The tiny roving bee, — 

Present in cloud and rock and tree, 

And in the pure and perfect grace 

Of simple nature's heaven-reflecting face. 

In Wisdom's sanctuaries, too. 

Communion shall he hold 

With those high masters of the days of old. 

The wise, the beautiful, the true, — 

Who, voicing thoughts sublime 

In stately utterance or rolling rhyme. 

Still to the human soul must be 

Bearers of light and immortality ! 

— Swarthmore, for thee it is a laurelled day. 

The brightest day in all thine annals clear ; 

From many a distant town and rural way 

Come those who hold thee dear, — 

Founder and friend and patron ; and thine own 

Devoted children, full of warm acclaim 

For thy beloved name. 

Full of high hope that thine may be, 

Mother Revered, a not inglorious destiny ! 

Wisely and well the seed was sown ; 

O wisely be the gleaning done, and well ! 


The West House 

Be not unheeded or unheard the spell 

Of memoried names, nor of the memoried faces 

From whose still station on thy walls 

A sweet and silent consecration falls. 

Ah, dearer yet shall grow the dear old places 

Thine earlier children knew; 

Another line shall rise of tender hearts and true, 

And 'neath the murmurous music of thy trees 

Shall learn of larger truth, 

Nourishing their beauteous years of youth 

With wider faiths, sweeter philanthropies. 

Ideals loftier far than we may know. 

So shall thy peaceful mission grow ; 

So shall the ripening hour 

Bring on the fair and perfect flower, — 

Till down long vistas of illustrious years 

Thy sons shall gaze with noble pride, 

Thy daughters by their side 

Bless thee with happy tears ; — 

While thou dost calmly face the Future vast. 

Still cherishing thy spirit's steadfast flame. 

Still cherishing an old ancestral name 

August with memories of thine own sweet Past ! 


(birthplace of benjamin west, p. b. a.) 

C\ ANCIENT House, what memories are gleaming. 

What recollections of the vanished hours. 
While through the silent summer thou art dreaming 
Enfolded by thy trees and meadow-flowers? 
What visions of old days 

May cheer thy lonely heart, 
Seen through the hallowed haze 
Where thou dost muse apart.'' 


The West House 

Peaceful and calm, — of our unrest and worry 

Thou heedless art ; our fevers touch not thee ; 
Thou sharest not our age's heat and hurry, 
Secure in thy serene tranquillity. 

Not all the troublous schemes 

The weary century knows 
Can mar thy quiet dreams 
Or break thy calm repose. 

Dear fragrant June is smiling in her glory, 
Filled with the radiance of youth is she ; 
From out the quiet of thy shadows hoary 
Thou watchcst o'er her beauty tenderly. 
To thy gray walls she cleaves 

With childish, shy caress. 
And bowers thine ancient eaves 
With leafy loveliness. 

The perfume of her sweet old-fashioned roses 

Awakes in thee a thought of other years, 
And revery o'er those phantom days discloses 
The faded hours that bring regretful tears. 
Far voices call to thee 

In a remembered tongue 
From that old century 

When thou, gray House, wert young ! 

Perchance thou dreamest of departed faces, 
Colonial dwellers by the woodlands tall, 
Grave Quaker yeomen, dames of antique graces. 
And soft-eyed children best beloved of all. 
Full often did they pass 

Or linger at thy door, 
Blithe lad and ruddy lass. 
In those far years of yore. 

They long have gone from earth, but thou art keeping 
In thine old heart their memory yet clear, 


The West House 

While through the generations they are sleeping 
Forgot of all save thee for many a year; 
Forgot of all save thee 

The place of their repose, 
Where wandering ivies be 
And tangled briar-rose. 

But best and brightest of the memories olden 

That fill thy mellow age with quiet joy, — 
O best and brightest are the memories golden 
That cluster round one Heaven-gifted boy! 
Though that far mother-clime 

Claim his maturity. 
Yet all his boyhood's prime 
Belongs, old House, to thee. 

He loved the silence of these woodland alleys. 
He loved the colors of this peaceful sky, 
He loved these sleeping hills and grassy valleys ; 
Their tranquil beauty pleased his artist eye. 
For many a summer hour 
Delighted would he pore 
On each dear native flower 
Beside his father's door. 

With happy heart he gazed upon the splendor 

Of regal autumn in the crimson woods ; 
With happy heart he saw the beauty tender 
Of budding life in vernal solitudes. 
His artist soul was thrilled 
With visions of delight^ 
His waking fancy filled 

With dreams and longings bright. 

And when at last he stood at manhood's portal 
And passed forever from these meadows dear, 

Perchance his visions of a fame immortal 
Were not unmingled with regret sincere. 


'^Beatus I lie' 

Wherever he might roam 

In lands beyond the sea, 
Still would his childhood's home 

Not unremembered be. 

And now among the mighty he is lying 

Where Wren's cathedral dreams 'mid London's roar ; 
Companioned with a company undying 
His is a name to live forevermore ! 
Hard by Lud's ancient gate 

Where England's life-tide sweeps, 
Entombed with England's great 
The Quaker Painter sleeps. 

And thee, old House, that slumberest serenely. 
We cherish as the Painter's boyhood home ; 
With tender care yon College j^oung and queenly 
Doth shadow thee with her protecting dome. 
In academic shades 

The Artist's fame shall last; 
Here Glory never fades. 

Nor reverence for the Past! 

So, ancient House, rare memories are gleaming. 

Sweet recollections of the vanished hours. 
While through the silent summer thou art dreaming 
Enfolded by thy trees and meadow-flowers. 
Bright visions of old days 

Still cheer thy lonely heart 

Seen through the hallowed haze 

Where thou dost muse apart ! 


r\ BLEST the peace that falls 

In solitudes serene. 
Where ivied college walls 

Rise o'er the tranquil green ; 
And blest the ardent youth 


''Beaius Ille^ 

Who climbs the hills of Truth 

And basks awhile in Wisdom's wide demesne ! 

The noises of the world 

His musings may not mar, 
Nor darkling smoke upcurled 

From clangorous marts afar; 
While fragrant and more dear 
He finds each golden year 

Upon the leaves of Youth's white calendar. 

Here may he converse hold 

With men of mighty name, , 

The deathless ones of old 

And seers of starry fame; 
View Plato's page divine, 
And ponder at the shrine 

Whence Homer's sons have born the sacred flame. 

From old primeval tales 

The honey he may seize. 
Dream in Arcadian vales 

Or 'neath Sicilian trees ; 
Hear Dido's plaint forlorn, 
Or Roland's thunderous horn 

Resounding through the misty centuries ! 

With measures musical 

The minstrels of old time 
Shall hold him willing thrall 

To golden-hearted rhyme; 
Shakespeare's eternal scroll ■ 
Enchant his deepest soul. 

And Milton move with harmony sublime. 

The annals of the earth. 

Antiquity's gray streams. 
Shall give his fancy birth 

And touch his heart to dreams ; 


'-^Beatus I lie' 

The glories of the vast 
Immeasurable Past 

Fill all his vision with undying gleams ! 

Nature, the genial nurse, 

His guiding-star shall be; 
Through all the universe 

Her radiance ma}'^ he see ; 
And she will bid him hear 
With spiritual ear 

The music of her endless symphony. 

Nor shall he miss the flowers 

That grow his way along. 
Speeding the sunny hours 

With merriment and song ; 
Or training heart and eye 
In emulation high 

On happy meads where friendly rivals throng. 

So day by golden day 

More luminous and bright 
Shall glow the steadfast ray 

That sets his soul alight: 
With Peace and Purity 
His comradeship shall be. 

And Faith that leads him on from height to height. 

Then when Life summons him. 

With bounding hope he hears. 
And yet his eyes are dim 

With honorable tears, 
As with reluctant feet 
He leaves these precincts sweet. 

This sanctuary of his vernal years. 

O blest the peace that falls 

In cloistered shades serene. 
Where ivied college walls 


In College Days 

Rise o'er the silent green ; 
And happy is the youth 
Who climbs the hills of Truth 

And basks awhile in Wisdom's fair demesne ! 


(Read at a Dinner of the SwartJimore Cluh) 

I N COLLEGE days,— 

Ah, what a spell. 
Dear words, doth in your music dwell, 
As recollection bears us back 
Along our springtime's golden track. 
When life was young and youth was sweet. 
And time flew by with winged feet; 
When Hope reached forth her kindly hand. 
And all the world was like a wonderland ! 

In college days, — 

The glowing life. 
The healthful games, the friendly strife. 
The pluck that made our rivals yield 
Full oftentimes on track and field. 
When heartened by our sisters fair 
We raised the Garnet high in air. 
And oh ! the balmy month of May, 
When we sat at close of day 
Underneath the college trees 
Chanting all the olden glees. 
Or strolled where windeth yonder stream 
Peacefully as in a dream. 
Here we watched the purple dawn 
Lighting all the sloping lawn. 
Touching with its tender red 
The far-off river's silver thread. 

Here we watched the leafy spring 
Wake to life each tender thing, 


In College Days 

Saw the rains of April spill 
From crocus-cup and daffodil ; 
Through the dreamy autumn-tide 
Roamed across the countryside, 
Where the purple vapor fills 
All the morning's misty hills, 
While the fruits were waxing mellow 
And the corn-fields waning yellow. 
Winter's beauty charmed us, too, 
With its riot winds that blew — 
Sounding through the swaying trees 
Wild, majestic symphonies. 
'Twas then we saw the pane embossed 
With the magic of the frost, 
Watched the soft snow drifting down 
Hiding all the landscape brown; 
And, shod with steel, went fleeting o'er 
The sleeping Krum's smooth, icy floor. 
And thus we found each season dear 
That rounded out the sweet and lingering year. 

In college days, — 

What precious hours 
We spent in gentle Wisdom's bowers ! — 
Nourishing our eager youth 
With lofty messages of truth. 
Pondering the rote and rule 
Of each philosophic school, 
IMusing much upon the vast 
Epic story of the Past, 
And seeking for the primal cause 
Of nature's universal laws. 

But best of all, — O sweet and long 
Our sojourn with the sons of song! — 
Faring o'er the storied sea 
In gra}' Homer's company, 


In Swarthmore Meeting 

Listening to the epic lay 
Sung in Rome's imperial day, 
Chaucer's warblings sweet as rains 
In old England's April lanes, 
Spenser's golden-cadenced line, 
Milton's melody divine, 
And the many-voiced string 
Of him whom all men hail as Poet-King. 

In college days, — 

Ah, comrades, when 
Come those golden hours again? 
Come they e'er, save through the haze 
Of our dreams of yesterdays, — 
Recollections sweet and old 
On the inmost heart enrolled? 
— When the j oys of life shall pall 
And the shadows round us fall. 
When our vessels' sails are furled 
From our voyaging down the world, — 
Looking back through smiles and tears 
On the unforgotten years. 
None more joyous shall we see 
Than the years that used to be 
In college days ! 


nn HOUGH Swarthmore's children wander wide, 

In memory they cherish still 
The quiet Meeting-house beside 
The grove on Swarthmore's peaceful hill. 

In this still home of quietude 
The worldly spirit fades away; 
To sober thought we frame our mood 
Here on each tranquil Sabbath day. 


Hope^ Tf^usty Believe^ 

No ritual these precincts know, 
Unless it be when yonder trees 
Responding to soft winds that blow 
Chant forth their leafy litanies. 

And though no organ shake the air, 
No hymns uplift melodious words. 
Yet wandering breezes hither bear 
The anthems of the happy birds. 

And here in musings deep and true 
Communing silently apart, 
We dedicate ourselves aneAV 
And feel a quickening of the heart. 

O rich the many offerings brought 
And yielded on the listening air, 
The poet's pure immortal thought, 
The sage's precept large and fair ! 

And rich the messages of truth 

From riper souls among us here. 

Sweet words that calm the doubts of youth 

And point the path of duty clear. 

What seeds of good those words may be 

In this retired and holy time, 

Amid so fair a company 

In life's receptive, ardent prime! 

Though Swarthmore's children wander wide, 

In memory they cherish still 

The quiet Meeting-house beside 

The grove on Swarthmore's peaceful hill. 


{After an Address hy Lyman Abbott, 1899) 

1-J OPE, trust, believe ! Look not with doubting eyes, 
Nor muse on wasted or on fruitless days ; 


Titania and Bottom 

Take courage new, and fix the steadfast gaze 
On sunny mountain peaks and the pure skies, 
In whose unsullied depths all glory lies. 
Like high-souled pilgrims let no forest's maze 
Entangle your sure feet, no valley's haze 
Bedim your vision of the far-off prize. 

O valiant hearts and young, the rosy dawn 

Is yours to-day, and yours life's beauty vernal ; 

Nor shall their primal radiance be withdrawn, 

If in sweet consecration you receive 

And cherish as a talisman eternal, 

The message of that morn, "Hope, trust, believe !" 


1_IAPPY are we who dwell in sight of thee, 

Dear Swarthmore, — with thy stately domes that rise 
Serene as the encircling summer skies, 
Thy storied ivies and each memoried tree. 
Thy green that fades into the far-off lea. 
Those woods that golden autumn glorifies, 
And yon deep western vale where softly dies 
The winter sun in lingering majesty! 

Thy joyous children we, for whom the years 
Are bounteous of the things that perish not, — 
Friendships, sweet ministries, and true content. 
Close linked together by the sentiment 
Of love for thee, we share our joys and tears. 
Nor ask the Father for a happier lot. 


{Shahespeare Evejiing, 1898) 

"117 HAT charm and beauty in that sylvan scene ! 

We were forgetful of the world a space 
The while we marked the spiritual grace 
Of airy elves around their winsome Queen, 


To Can 072 Rawnsley 

There in the dim, deep, moonlit forest green ; 
And but for Bottom with his monstrous face, — 
Earth's one intrusion on that fairy place, — 
It were a dream, harmonious and serene. 

Shakespearian beauty and Shakespearian wit 

In this immortal comedy combine, — 

A pageant fair of mirth and melody, 

Wherein the Bard with wondrous hand hath knit, 

In link on link of fragrant poesy. 

The union of the earthly and divine ! 


{Renewing the college walk, 1898) 

V\7HEN the pale sun had sunk behind the wood 

And deeping shadows crept across the snow, 
I watched the wearied laborers come and go 
As each his own appointed task pursued. 
How strangely in that twilight solitude 
Each common, unpoetic thing did show, — 
The rusty furnace with its lurid glow. 
The barrows and the piles of fagots rude. 
The dark pitch-mounds ! — Upon them one and all 
The hand of sentiment had laid its spell. 
And as I heard the mellow evening bell 
In soft and measured cadence rise and fall, 
I mused on Fancy's power to glorify 
The lowliest objects that around us lie! 


{After his Address on Wordsworth's Message, 1899) 

nPHOU gav'st us golden words that golden day, — 

Thou spiritual scion of the Seer 
Who made the English lakes forever dear, 
The English mountains memorable for aye. 


The 'Grey Olde Manne of Dreames 

We seemed to hear from lonely summits gray, 
From fell and murmurous tarn and tranquil mere, 
Echoes of that great Voice serene and clear 
Whose message is a solace and a stay ! 

The world hath need of calming words like those 
In this her troubled hour of haste and heat ; 
Childlike in their simplicity, and sweet, 
They come with consolation and repose. 
In grateful memory, then, we cherish thee, — ■ 
Apostle of Wordsworth's deep tranquillity! 







r\ WALY, waly hy the Brigge 

That s pannes the sleepie Krumme! 
And waly by the woodsyde Roches 
Where Profs did never come! 
Now, Senex, saye, what can thee ayle, 

And why thy mournfulle Cry, 
Whenas the Lil3^e's on the Lea, 
The Larke ymounted hye? 

Why onlye dost thou moane 

Upon the mossie Stone? 

Ah, Gossyp, never canst thou knowe 

What carefulle Carke is myne, 
Who for the Da3^es that are no moe 
Do pityfullie pyne. 

And syttinge all alone 

Do moane 
Upon the mossie Stone ! 

Alacke ! acrosse my drowzie Dreame 

Doth portlie Pennell passe. 
Who solde his frostie Lollypoppe 

At Pennies five a Glasse. 


The Grey Olde Manne of Dreames 

O manye an Afternoone 

Of June 
I've scene him wielde his Spoone ! 

And that kinde Soule of Jammcs and Tartes, 

O Ray-Chell, where is she, 
Who tooke us in when sore Exams 
Did presse unpleasauntlie? — 

Within whose Doores we stayde 

And made 
Our Meales on Marmalade. 

waly hy the Laundrie Walle 

Where Pennell wont to he! 
And waly, waly hy the Doore 

Of Ray-CheU's Nurserie! 

Where once the Tubbe-race drewe the Crowde 

Of Youthe to K rum 712 e his Bankes, 
With loftie Mien disdainfulhe 
The Inne-folke pace in Rankes. 
Uncouthe the Race they dubbe 
With Tubbe,— 
Ah, Gossyp, there's the Rubbe ! 

And nevermoe are hearde in Halle 

Those jocunde Feres, perdie, 
Who plyde at golden Sette of Sunne 
Their merrie Minstrelsie: 

Gone is the mellowe Flute, 

And mute 
The softlie-stricken Lute! 

waly for the doughfie Deedes 
On Krumme his glassie Streame! 

And waly for the Musicke softe 

That sette myne Hearte adreame! 

O Dicke and Davie, do ye muse 
Upon those Daj'es of Yore, 


Standing a Beacon 

When ye and lytel Joe and I 
Were happie Comrades foure? 
Like Phantom-formes, alas, 

Ye passe 
Acrosse my Meraorie's glasse ! 

Ah, woe and welladaye ! my Voyce 

Is all unhearde, meseems, 
And by the Younkers am I highte 
The Grey Olde Manne of Dreames. 
Loe, fade away I muste. 

Where Duste 
Doth lie, and Mothe and Ruste ! 




C WARTHMORE the fair, 

Ivied and grej^. 
Peaceful and steadfast. 

Crowning the slopes of thy green-shaded hill; 
Looking o'er lowland and farmland and woodland 
To the glimmering river 'mid meadows afar; 
Hope of thy Founders, — 
Strong souls and true ; 
' Dear to thy daughter and loved of thy sons ; 
Sacred to Science, 
The Muses and Art; 

Ever through sunlight and moonlight and mist, 
In j^ellowing autumn and young-hearted spring, 
Standing a beacon 
Unto thy children. 

Lighting the pathway to noble endeavor. 
To beautiful deeds and inviolate faith ! 


Shadows of a Dream 

(Air: "0 Alte Burschen-herrlichkeit") 
SWARTHMORE, Swarthmore, every son and daugh- 


ter loves thy glory ; 
We sound thy fame, beloved name, in cheer and song and 
story ! 
With courage high and honor clear 
No name of all is half so dear 
As Alma Mater ever, O Swarthmore forever! 

O Swarthmore, Swarthmore, strong the links of love that 

fondly bind us ; 
At thy dear side, O true and tried, thou shalt forever 
find us. 
On field and track, in class and hall 
We answer gladly to the call 
Of Alma Mater ever, O Swarthmore forever ! 

O Swarthmore, Swarthmore, through the years that sun- 
der and that sever, 
We'll cling to thee in memory forever and forever. 

Through year of sunshine and of storm 

Our loyal hearts shall still beat warm 
For Alma Mater ever, O Swarthmore forever ! 


Q MEMORY, bring back the days 

Those first sweet college days of old, 

When autumn crimsoned all the ways 

And fringed the woodland's edge with gold, 
And under orchard boughs were rolled 

The ruddy fruit for "Tom" and me, 
In those far days of joy untold 

When happy college lads were we. 

Bring back the silver'd autumn eves 
Beneath the dreamy harvest moon, 


Swa?^thmore Scenes 

When 'mid the red and 3'enow leaves 

We listened to the Avinsome tune 

Of mandolins or mellow croon 
Of songs that still must sweeter be 

When out of years that went too soon 
They sound again for "Tom" and me. 

The red and j^ellow cherry leaves 

Are drifting down across my dream, 
And for an hour my heart it grieves 

While musing on the gloAv and gleam 

Of those lost days that only seem 
Like phantoms that can never be 

More than the shadows of a dream 
Of vanished joys for "Tom" and me. 


T^EAR Swarthmore Scenes, we see you in our dreaming 

In pensive twilight hours when all is still ; 
We see again the tranquil river's gleaming, 

The sunset's gold beyond the wooded hill. 
Once more the snowy cherry-bloom is falling 

Where violets with vernal dews are sweet ; 
Once more the meadow-lark is softly calling 

Across the acres of the April wheat. 
Once more along the frozen Krum is ringing 

The joy of many a wintry afternoon; 
Once more across the campus comes the singing 

Of sweet old songs in eves of fragrant June. 

In silence still the old West House is sleeping. 

Ringed round in March with English daffodils ; 
And over all the College dome is keeping 

High watch across the well-remembered hills. 
Lost days and dear arise in recollection 

As on these Swarthmore Scenes we fondly gaze ; 
Old memory is stirred, and old affection 

Enchants with visions of those vanished days. 


The Scholar s Ideal 


(Read before the Society of the Phi Beta Kappa, 
Swarthmore College, May 6th, 190 Jf.) 

1_I0MER, chanting of immortal battles, 

Sounding still across immortal years; 
Virgil, the august, the melancholy, 

Virgil, mournful over human tears; 
Plato, whose sublime and pure abstractions 

Mould men's deeper thought unto this hour ; 
Pindar, pouring his tumultuous measures ; 

Cicero, that voice of golden power; 
Sophocles, with godlike calm surveying 

Life through most serene of human eyes ; 
Horace, kindly pagan, wreathed with roses, 

Horace, still the wisest of the wise ; 
Moschus, singing those last songs of Hellas 

In soft meadows by Sicilian seas : — 
Poets and philosophers and dreamers, — 

Comrades mine, do ye not cherish these? 
Cherish and remember with affection 

Like great friendships that must honored be, 
Or like rich and melancholy music 

Echoing through the halls of memory ! 


What must be the scholar's great ideal, 

What must be the scholar's guiding star. 
Teaching him aright to spend the treasure 

Brought to him from down the ages far? 
This, I think, — to coin in living service 

All the garnered gold of happy years. 
Spending freely for his yearning brothers, 

For his sisters worn with wistful tears. 
Let him turn great Plato's love of Beauty, 

Plato's love of Harmony Divine, 


The Scholar s Ideal 

Into gracious courtesy and friendship, 
Into loving-kindness sweet and fine ; 

Challenging the shallow slaves of fashion 
With his life of ordered days serene, 

Days of fruitful joys and noble pleasures 
'Mid their selfish joys and pleasures mean. 

He who holds a privileged communion 

Daily with the masters of the soul. 
Surely he can set before his vision 

Naught but some superb and splendid goal. 
He, I think, wherever life may lead him, 

Still must cherish a divine unrest. 
Still must hold inviolate the vision. 

Still inviolate the starry quest. 
What availeth Burke's impassioned pleading. 

What availeth Milton's heavenl}' song. 
If they stir him not to gird his armor 

'Gainst the hydra-headed beasts of wrong ! 
In the sweet and wondrous songs of Shelley 

He must find an uplift toward the light. 
Find a splendid ardor of renewal 

In the paeans of that spirit bright. 

Mystery and Beauty must enthrall him 

While he sails on Wonder's chartless seas. 
Mystery and Beauty keep his spirit 

Open to the eternal harmonies. 
Let him greatly venture with Columbus, 

Turn his keel toward islands fair and far. 
Seek Utopias on strange horizons, 

New Republics 'neath the sunset star. 
Let him dream with mighty Alexander 

Of fresh conquests here beneath the blue. 
Praying not to Ares but Athena 

For a godly strength and courage true. 
Let him brave again with Galileo 

Superstition's hate and jailor's bar, 


The Scholar s Ideal 

Until wakened Truth and Right shall beacon 
From the heavens like star on flaming star. 

Not with fevered impulse let him labor, 

Not with scattered aims that wear and waste ; 
Nay, the forest and the sea must teach him 

God's slow purpose, Heaven's great unhaste. 
Happy if he stir to high endeavor 

Here and there a band of ardent youth, 
Knighting them with some fine consecration 

Hero-hearts and champions of Truth; 
Leading them against the baleful dragons 

That infest our highway's, — Fraud and Hate, 
Pride and Greed, Hypocrisy and Cunning, 

Threatening still the fabric of the state. 
'Gainst those subtle and insidious monsters 

He must long and tireless warfare wage. 
Even as Luther hurled a hot defiance 

At the mightiest Evil of his age. 

They will greatly strive, those young crusaders, 

Strong of heart and eloquent of tongue. 
Greatly strive until the People welcome 

That Equality which Shelley sung ; 
Welcome Tennesson's World-Federation 

\\niich the nations have awaited long. 
Welcome Brotherhood whose golden advent 

Thrills the pulse of Markham's ringing song 
Bearing helpfulness and holy friendship 

To the world's unhapp}' and untaught. 
To the blinded and the broken-hearted 

Bearing still the light of noblest thought. 
This must be the scholar's great ideal 

This must be the scholar's guiding star, 
Teaching him aright to spend the treasure 

Brought to him from down the ages far. 


T'he Planting of the Kims 


Golden years thou gavest. Alma Mater; 

Golden lore we garnered in thy halls, 
I would dedicate to Truth and Beauty 

All I dreamed beside thy pensive walls, 
Dreamed of godly men and holy sages, 

Dreamed of poets filled with fire divine, 
Martyrs dying that God's truth might prosper, 

Heroes splendid in the battle-line. 

that I might tell in woven measures 

All thy blessings to thy yearning child, — 
But my lips have naught but broken music 
And my numbers falter strange and wild. 

Yet if word of mine might be remembered 
Still untrodden 'neath oblivion's feet, 

1 would say unto my glad young brothers. 

To my sisters great of heart and sweet: — 
Every noble dream, O cherish, cherish! 

Fix your fervent eyes on some high goal; 
Keep inviolate and still unvanquished 

Your eternal hunger of the soul. 

Leave a memory that cannot perish 

With the flowing and forgetful years ; 
Leave a memory that men shall honor 

While they bless your names through happy tears. 
"Be ye perfect even as your Father," — 

Surely 'tis a heartening command ! 
Shape your days and deeds, O Svvarthmore's children, 

After that ideal sweet and grand. 


(Read at the dedication of the William Penn Elms, 
Swarthmore College Campus, October, 1909) 

T N memory of great and godly Penn, 
In autumn's peaceful hours we dedicate 


The Plantmg of the Kims 

These elms, of lineage noble and renowned, 

Unto the peace beloved of Penn. With drifts 

Of red and gold hath pensive autumn strewn 

Our peaceful campus ; soft autumnal mists 

Have wrapt our fields and woods in magic dream, 

Making more beautiful these college slopes 

Already beautiful with sentiment 

And love and long affection. Many a heart 

Musing upon the fading loveliness 

Of Swarthmore's campus in these autumn hours. 

Is touched with love and pathos infinite, 

For here of yore we worked and played and dreamed. 

Nourishing here our golden years of youth 

With great ideals and with noble books 

Of sages and of poets. Many a heart, 

New to these slopes, brightly anticipates 

Long golden years of work and play and dreams. 

So with these elms we dedicate, — they seem 

Symbols of Swarthmore's children old and new; 

Henceforward, with our brotherhood of oaks 

And sisterhood of elms and sycamores. 

They join their lot, they add their power and charm, 

Even as our college comrades newly come 

Have brought their gifts of hope and youthful joy. 

O kindly 3'outhful hearts, and youthful trees, — 

Musing on what the years may hold for you 

Of noble growth and noble power, I hear 

A note of sadness 'mid the harmony, 

Of grief for one of Swarthmore's dearest sons* 

Whom God hath called of late from us his friends 

And comrades in our little college world. 

He loved the throngs of eager 3'outh that fill 

Our studious bowers, and it was his joy 

To lead them like a kindly elder brother 

To love of those high things he loved so well. 

*Professor Ferris W. Price of the Class of '74 


The Planting of the Rims 

The planting of these trees would have made glad 

Our gentle friend ; in them he would have seen 

Promise and forward-looking hope ; he loved 

Each graceful plant and every memoried tree 

On these green slopes and in our woodlands deep, — 

None knew them better ; it was his delight 

To wander far among the fields and groves 

In search of pale, shy wood-flowers, and he knew 

Each haunt and sanctuary of the flowers. 

His nature was all kindliness and love 

And sanity, virile with sterling worth 

And lofty sense of honor, — yea, he walked 

Among us like a Roman of old time. 

Simple of soul, with quiet dignity, 

Unvexed, serene ; long years of fellowship 

With the great Romans whom he loved, had breathed 

Into his soul the wisdom sweet of Horace, — 

The pathos and the rich humanity 

Of pensive Virgil, — Cicero's deep calm ; 

O truly Horace sang of such as he, 

"Integer vitae, scelerisque purus!" 

And now we mourn to think that nevermore 

Our friend shall pass beneath our Swarthmore oaks, 

Shall wander in our woodlands nevermore 

Searching for wild arbutus, nevermore 

Shall cheer us with his radiant hopefulness 

And gracious friendship. 

His dear name shall blend 
With every fine tradition of our halls 
And studious bowers. — Let these youthful elms, 
So strong, so graceful, speak to us of him. 
The ever-youthful, gracious, fine, serene, — 
Nor lose, amid their April flush and bloom. 
Some recollection of this autumn hour 
Of wistful charm and elegiac peace, — 
The fruitful, perfect peace beloved of Penn, 
The Quaker peace for which we strive and pray. 


William W, Birdsall 


President of Swarthmore College, 1898-1902 
(Died, 1909) 

"\A/^E knew thee tenderest of men. 

We knew thee brave and true, 
We felt the sterling strength of soul 

Thy calm eyes shining through ; 
At times thy deeper self we saw. 
Unto itself a governing law. 

No rightful cause or piteous need 

Appealed to thee in vain ; 
Thy sympathy knew no confines, 

Thy knightliness no stain. 
A spirit generous and benign 
Made noble every act of thine. 

If steep and thorny were the way 

Not thine to stop and ask. 
Borne onward by a prayer-sought Power 

Through every sorest task. 
An old-time Quaker did we see 
Walking our modern ways in thee. 

And now, beyond the stars, thy help 

Is given as of yore; 
Thy great soul finds its noble work 

On that untroubled shore. 
We see thee climb the heavenly hill 
Patient and self-forgetful still. 

O may we meet thee yet again 

In far-off golden years, 
W^hen Time hath touched all hearts to rest 

And washed away all tears, — 
Take once again thy friendly hand 
And walk with thee the heavenly land ! 




{In Memory of Gerrit E. H. Weaver, of the Class of '8'2) 

nPHOSE who aright his spirit knew, 

Esteemed him gentle, modest, true; 
Content to follow quiet ways, 
No seeker after noisy praise. 
His work, his books, his well-tried friends, 
His country walks, — these were the ends 
That served to make the days complete, 
The passing seasons full and sweet. 

How oft he fled the surging crowd 

To find in field and tree and cloud 

Such friendship as can only be , 

In their august simplicity; — 

For still his heart, as of a child, 

Would call him to the woodlands wild. 

Well could he read with subtle ken 

Secrets denied to careless men ; 

Oft was he earliest to spy 

The haunt of pale arbutus shy; 

He loved to hear in leafy June 

The dear wood-robin's silver tune. 

Or mark October's tides of gold 

Across our waving woodlands rolled. 

Yes, well he loved through all the year 

The country ways and country cheer; 

And every Swarthmore field and hill 

His heart with happiness could fill. 

Gerrit, no more we'll share with thee 
Quaint persiflage and drollery ; 
Silenced forever is the joy 
That flowed from one still half a boy. 
No more with thee we'll search the bowers 
For loveliest of forest flowers; 


A Portrait of E, A, Brown 

No more we'll greet thee in the halls 
Beneath these memory-haunted walls. 

Old friend, — ours yet, — though ours no more, 

I see thee on some grander shore, 

AVorking in some nobler sphere, 

With ampler vision strong and clear; 

Following thy dreams perchance 

Amid serener circumstance, 

And easily victorious 

O'er problems that yet baffle us. 

Farewell, old comrade, teacher, friend; 

Early, too early, was thy end! 

Farewell, — thy College grieves for thee. 

Stainless in love and loyalty. 

Farewell, — for thee Swarthmore hath tears, 

Her son, so faithful through the years. 


{In Swarthmore College Library) 

I SEE thee, friend of far-off golden days. 
As first I saw thee in our college halls, — 
The slender boy, so pensive and refined. 
Modest and quiet, with thy kindly eyes 
Dreaming of unseen things, thy wistful look 
Desiring friendship for thy lonely heart. 
Old years return, old memories awake 
With gazing on this likeness, and old books 
We loved together, speak their old-time charm. 

Few understood, perhaps, thy inner self. 
Nor knew what tender depth of friendliness 
Lay hidden there; thy classmates were content 
To leave the shy recluse to his own dreams. 
Yet not without a silent liking, too. 
For thy rare sweetness and thy wistful ways 


A Portrait of E. A, Brown 

That found the solace of companionship 

With two or three, but most of all witli books. 

To thee the deatliless authors spoke with power 

And charm and music; many a happy da}'^ 

Have well-loved autliors ministered to thee 

Through hour on golden hour; their sweets were known 

To thee from deep perusal at still dawn, 

And through long afternoons and winter nights. 

Yea, thou wert one who found in noble books 

Of dreamer and of poet food for all 

The generous aspirations of the soul. 

Ah me, couldst thou have lived, friend of old days, 
What joy had been for thee in these deep nooks 
Among these precious volumes, what delight 
To read and meditate in alcoves calm 
Beneath these oaken roofs that seem to bring 
Some memory of old-world Oxford here ! 
But thou hast long been sleeping quietly 
On some far silent hill, beneath soft boughs 
That gently droop above thee, lulled by winds 
Of springtime, soothed with balmy fragrances 
Of stray wild-roses, and thy mortal form 
Mingles with earth. Only thy picture here, 
And these thy books, gift of thy generous heart, 
Remain to tell to students of to-day 
How sweet a presence once we knew in thee. 

Thou sleepest peacefully, friend of old davs, 
Lulled by soft winds and wild-wood fragrances, 
Forever free from care, forever young. 
And we who move along the track of years 
Through storm and sunshine, see thee youthful still, 
The light of ageless boyhood in thy face. 
Thy kind eyes tender with young hopes and griefs, — 
For hope and grief were thine, emotions strong 
That sweeten and ennoble youthful hearts. 


'^ Aleck"" MacDo?i7iell 

This pictured face of thine with its fine charm 
Shall serve our Swarthmorc youth in years to come 
As tranquil beacon toward the higher light, 
The sweeter, holier ways; for if there come 
Temptations to soul-starving pedantry, 
Or empty rivalry for empty fame. 
Or foolish luxury — thy portrait calm 
Will seem to speak for truth, for kindliness. 
For old-time Quaker virtues, for the fruit 
Of Swarthmore's finer sowing. 

I rejoice 
That every generation of glad youth 
That throngs our halls, yields hearts akin to thine. 
And faces in whose boyish innocence 
And girlhood loveliness there seem to brood 
The sign and seal of noble character. 
Telling of homes where kindly culture reigns 
And sterling faith and simple steadfastness. 
They are the anchors of our greatest hope, 
The noblest heritage Swarthmore can give. 

Thus muse I here beside thy precious books. 
Beneath these oaken roofs, where pictured clear 
I see thee, friend of far-off golden days,* 
As first I saw thee in our college halls — 
The slender boy, so pensive and refined, 
Modest and quiet, with thy kindly eyes 
Dreaming of unseen things, thy wistful look 
Desiring friendship for thy lonely heart. 


{The Genial College Watchman) 
P^AR more than unto some of higher state 

The name of gentleman belonged to you. 
Old friend, whose memory we shall ne'er forget. 
So warm of heart, so kind, so friendly-true ! 

*1886-88. Edgar Allen Brown was a member of the Class of '90, but 
died before graduation 


A Dead Poet 


{E. Neidin Williams, Class of 1893) 

(On Nature's highway he was a Passionate Pilgrim, 
truly; and his keen impressions he wove into delicate 
verse-forms. The sincerity and the truth and sanity of 
his character cannot perish from the remembrance of his 

THHE tender loveliness of young spring skies, 

The gush and purl of pebbled streams, 
The sacred solitude of lofty woods 
Enwrapped in vernal dreams, 

Faint, sweet earth-odors rising from the fields. 

The primal fragrance of the year — 
Alas, these now must come unheralded 

Of one who held them dear ! 

For nevermore by "greening meadow-land," 

By wood-walk cool or lonely hill. 
In reverie will our young Thyrsis stray 

With poet-heart a-thrill. 

No more in hidden, far-off forest dells 

For April's first flowers will he seek. 
Nor thread the groves of "sunlit sassafras" 

By Swarthmore's winding creek. 

Again the pale hepaticas come forth, 

And Quaker-ladies star the mold ; 
But he, our lost and loved one, cometh not 

To greet them as of old. 

For as with those shy, tender things he loved, 

Blossoms and buds of fragile bloom, 
Windflower, veronica and violet. 

His was an early doom. 


yoseph Bilderhack 

Softly the beautiful spirit winged its way 

Like music fading in tlie night; 
He fell asleep amid our mortal shade 

To wake in the great light. 

And in the plash of April's silvery rains 

That blur the vale with misty tears, 
I seemed to hear the young Spring make lament 

For his unfinished years. 

What mystery, what beaut}^, now is his 
In shining realms, we may not know ; 

But this we know, — his days were blameless, pure 
As that enshrouding snow 

Swept by the winds whose sombre requiem 
Deep in our grieving hearts shall ring 

And mar, like some untimely winter blast, 
The jo3'fulness of spring. 


(0/ the Class of '02. Died, November, 1900. "Pure as 
the spirit of the music which he evoked, a helpful acquaint- 
ance, a noble friend, 'Joe' Bilderback will be held in tender 
affection while memory lasts.") 

V\7HEN sorrowful November's hues were blended 

With lingering red and gold. 
His life of young and happy hope was ended, 
His earthly years were told. 

Not fearful went he down to death, nor sadly, 

But with a courage high ; 
He knew to walk the daily pathway gladly. 

So did he know to die. 

The melody he loved to make is broken, 

No more it thrills the ear ; 
But in our memories it lives, a token 

Of his bright spirit clear. 


Why Should He Die! 

When winds are grieving in the woodlands haunted, 

And soft rains drop their tears, 
I hear a melancholy requiem chanted 

For his unfinished j^ears. 


C O large of spirit and of hope so high, 

Why should Roy Ogden die! 
Why must he leave us thus and take away 
Some sunlight from our day ! 
Truly there seemed some blessing from the sun 
In him, our genial one; 
A buoyant cheer and emanation warm 
Of youth's eternal charm. 
Of youth's eternal courage, glory, joy; — 
So rich of soul Avas Roy. 

What pathos, that in April, when the earth 

Woke to its glad rebirth. 

We bore our kindly comrade to his sleep 

Amid green silence deep ! — 

It is no little comfort that the dome 

Of his loved college home 

Looks intimately doAvn on the calm rest 

Of one of Swarthmore's best; 

No little comfort that he lies below 

June's flowers, December's snow 

Here within hearing of the college bell 

Whose call he loved so well. 

He deeply loved these Swarthmore woods and fields ! 

My friendly memory yields 

Bright pictures of him roaming by our stream, 

Wrapt in a quiet dream ; 

Or on the breezy track ; or with his books 

Amid the sunny nooks 

Of class-rooms, patiently pursuing truth 

With the glad zeal of 3^outh. 


To IV i Hi am Hyde Applet on 

No generous enterprise of thought or deed 

But found him in the lead, 

Kindly and helpful, making bright the way 

Alike in work or play. — 

High-hearted friend, Swarthmore not soon shall see 

Another like to thee ! 

Alas, to our deep sorrow, not again 

He walks the ways of men 

Cheering us with his smile so wondrous bright 

His eyes so fraught with light. 

But in dear memory he lives to-day. 

And shall live there for aye. 

Our Roy, victorious, loving, fine of soul, 
Has won the heavenly goal! 


(At the Grave of Roy Ogden, Class of 19 14-) 

CLEEP well, dear soul, sleep well; and, airs of April, 

Breathe softly round his rest by this green hill 
Where loving comrades deckt his grave at twilight 
With evergreen and wreaths of daffodil, — 

With daffodil and evergreen, in token 

Of his bright spirit proof against defeat. 

O he shall live in loving recollection 

Like to some fadeless flower fresh and sweet ! 

God's acre keeps his dust ; and here forever 
His lettered stone to coming times shall tell 

The simple legend of the love we bore him 

Who whisper low: Sleep well, dear soul, sleep well! 


f^LD friends, old hooks — how true the adage seems. 

As I recall to-day in happy dreams 
Those memorable mornings spent with thee 
In realms of old romance and poesy, 


To W^illiam Hyde Applet on 

In "Room B's" genial sunshine, or beside 

Thy West House hearth in winter's snowy tide ! 

Kindly and freely didst thou share thy lore 
Brought from thy sojourn by old Hellas' shore; 
With thee for guide I heard grey Homer speak 
Across the ages in sonorous Greek; 
I watched Achilles drive with thunderous shout 
The fearful Trojans in tumultuous rout, 
And saw the blind old harper leading home 
His hero-hearts across the Mid-Sea foam. 

And when in pensive mood we did unroll 
The melancholy Tuscan's epic scroll. 
Thy sympathetic teaching made the room 
Seem sombre for the nonce, like to the gloom 
'Mid which the Roman laureate was led 
By Dante through the regions of the dead. 

But mellow were the hours and sunny-warm. 

When yielding to the Vaterland's old charm 

We read the ballads of the haunted Rhine 

And Schiller's songs and Heine's lyric line, 

Or wandered pleasantly the roads to Rome 

Where youthful Goethe's soul first found its home. 

— Old friends, old books, ah, those were cherished hours, 

Gleaning with thee the poets' golden flowers ! 

Thy Shakespeare Readings live in memory yet ; 

Those happy evenings who can e'er forget, 

When friends foregathered, a delighted band. 

To walk with thee in an enchanted land ! 

Then were we borne to Elsinore again 

To muse and sorrow with the pensive Dane ; 

We trod with valiant "Hal" the fields of France, 

And yearned o'er tender Viola's romance, 

Thrilled with the terrors of Macbeth's dark crime, 

And mourned Cordelia dead in her sweet prime. 


To Willi am Hyde Applet on 

Not vainl}^ liadst thou seen the mighty Booth 

And charming Kemble in thy years of 3'outh, 

And basked in old tradition's light which they 

Still kept aglow from a remoter day, 

When Siddons ruled the stage a glorious queen 

And all men marvelled at the powers of Kean. 

— Those far-off days lived once again for me, 

Authentic in thy kindly sympathy ; 

Yea, back through Garrick, Betterton I dreamed, 

E'en to old Bui'bage whom our Shakespeare deemed 

Worthy each noblest, each heroic part. 

And round that regal presence shaped his art. 

happy, happy evenings when we quaffed 
Full deep of Falstaff's Avit, or helpless laughed 
At grave Malvolio's glory brought so low ! 
But none so dear to me as Prospero, 

At once the gentlest and most stately soul 

In all of Shakespeare's marvellous bead-roll ; 

How wistful could his wondrous story be. 

Interpreted so feelingly by thee ! 

■ — Old friends, old books, — yea, dearer do they seem, 

Linked with the golden hours of which I dream. 

And coming down the great poetic line. 
What joys like unto these were richly mine! 

1 hear thee oft in memory rehearse 
The majesty of Milton's epic verse 

That blows across the world a trumpet blast, 
Melodious, glorious from the mighty Past. 
With thee I ponder Pope's delightful page, 
Where centers all the brilliance of his age, — 
Keen-thoughted Pope so oftentimes who hit 
On deepest truth with charming sense and wit, 
And with harmonious and resounding rime 
Made Homer into English for all time. 
Goldsmith and wistful Gray once more I see 
Made welcome in the sunshine of "Room B" ; 


In a Copy of ^^ Greek Poets'' 

And Cowper, tender-hearted, genial, mild ; 
And Byron, melancholy's gifted child. 

Through each and all, as taught to us by thee, 
Some lesson ran of life and destiny. 
Some kindliness, some beauty, some delight. 
To fortify against Time's ruthless night ; 
Some solace, some harmonious message clear 
That sounded to the spirit's finer ear. 

Among my well-loved books whose friendly charm 
Seems doubly dear beside the wood-fire warm, 
Musing in pleasant revery to-night, 
I — one of many student-friends — indite 
These lines to thee whom we in honor hold, 
Our cherished friend and guide from days of old, 
Whose Swarthmore teachings thus may reckoned be, — 
Through beauty and truth he set the spirit free. 


^F O more at statel}?^ courts of kings 
Does Homer strike his epic lyre ; 
No more the mighty victor-fields 

Are thrilled with Pindar's lyric fire. 
Sicilian shepherds pipe no more 

Beneath the old idyllic trees ; 
The marble theaters are mute 

That hailed the verse of Sophocles. 
By oaken grove and poppied lea 

The ancient deities are dead, 
The woodland fanes in ruins lie, 

The sister Muses long have fled. 

But in this book of noble verse 
I still can hear the songs of yore, 

And live again those golden years 
Beside the far Homeric shore; 


Golden Volumes 

Still in this garden roam with him, 
The kindly friend from days of old, 

Who gleaned for us Hellenic flowers 
Through glad and sunny da^'s untold. 


{Read at the presentation of Professor Applet on's pri- 
vate library to Swarthmore College Library, by the Phi 
Beta Kappa Society) 

l_f OW may I tell of these volumes whose charm I have 

loved so long, 
These golden volumes of wisdom, these beautiful books of 

song, — 
How tell of the long sweet mornings, the never-forgotten 

When lost in a land of enchantment I turned their splendid 

And followed our friend and teacher who loves them true 

and well 
As he led through the happy meadows where the blessed 

Muses dwell ! 

Milton and Keats and Wordsworth in wonderful verse 

have told 
The joys of the wise book-lover who travels the realms of 

They have sung in matchless music of the pleasure true 

and pure 
Awaiting the glad disciples who follow still the lure 
And the charm of books where poet and seer and scholar 

and sage 
Have spoken noble wisdom and truth to every age. 

"Old books are best !"— Ah, truly, from out the memoried 

They bring us their freight of affection and music and 

wistful tears ; 


Swart hmore s Peace-makers 

They tell as with golden voices of the wisdom sweet and old 
Bequeathed by the deathless dreamers and poets with 

hearts of gold ; 
And to him who loves their music and seeks to share their 

They give unrivaled riches that perisli nevermore. 

Systems arise and vanish, and mortals have their day, — 
'Tis only the wise old masters of song who have come to 

stay ; 
'Tis only the seer and scholar and sage whose thoughts 

Embalmed forever and ever in volumes good and pure, — 
O Swarthmore's sons and daughters, may you love and 

cherish long 
These books of our friend and teacher who gave us the love 

of song! 


W. 1. H. 

'*CTILL in thy right hand carry gentle peace;" 

So Shakespeare urged in warlike years of old: 
God speed our friend who helps that cry become 
A trumpet-blast across the sad earth rolled, — 
A trumpet-blast of mighty harmony. 
Calling the hostile lands their strife to cease 
With contrite hearts, and bidding each true soul — 
"Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace!" 

B. F. B. 

W^HAT is Swarthraore doing for Peace, 
How helping to make war-madness cease? 
Through him, her envoy, she reaches out 
And helps to quiet the warring lands, 
Helps to silence the battle-shout. 
Over the ocean she reaches hands 


When Pearson Reads 

To calm and pacify and heal, 

Making the wcarj nations feel 

How there is a merciful law, above 

Their savage code of blood and might, — 
The law of jtistice. 
The law of right. 
The law of brotherly love. 


{To H. C. H.) 

** T^LDEST of things, divine Equality!" 

•'—* Great Shelley sang it in his fervent youth. 
And with his wondrous vision half divine 
Beyond old error saw the shining truth. 

He saw the truth, and sang to sons of men. 
Not chidingly, because he knew them blind. 

Not stern of heart, too noble he for that. 
But tenderly, with accents heavenly kind. 

Divine Equality — were it but ours. 

As balm for all our hurts it might suffice, 

Call heaven back unto the wistful world 
And make this earth another paradise. 

Another paradise where Love should rule 
And noble Justice guard the noble state, 

And man and woman walk the ways of life 
As God ordaineth, equal mate by mate. 

Yea, equal mate by mate, God's perfect way — 
So as the Poet dreamed, O may it be. 

And earth behold as in some golden age 
"Eldest of things, divine Equality!" 


Ay\7HEN Pearson reads, — I seem to hear 

Old-fashioned talk and country cheer; 


To Paul M, Pearson 

Among green fields and running broolcs 
I seem to read from Rile^^'s books; 
And Riley's kindly people walk 
Before my eyes and quaintly talk — 
When Pearson reads. 

When Pearson reads, — I seem to hear 
Old southern songs that echo clear, 
And o'er me murmur soft and far 
The tender lyrics of Dunbar. 
In wistful dreams I seem to see 
The darkies dance in merry glee — 
When Pearson reads. 

When Pearson reads, — I seem to know 
The inner heart of Edgar Poe ; 
The pathos of his tragic years ; 
The pity of it that moves to tears. 
I seem to walk that wondrous shore 
Where dwells the shade of lost Lenore — • 
When Pearson reads. 

Old memories of vanished years, 
Old recollections dimmed with tears. 
Old joys and griefs that had their part 
In life's best hours, surge round the heart- 
When Pearson reads. 



ROM out thy "Speaker" on a festal night 
I read to friends such songs as brought the light 
Of tender memories to every face, 
And touched with poetry's resistless grace 
Deep sympathies that have their roots in years 
Of human happiness and human tears. 

And on a tranquil, dreamy afternoon. 

While through the sunset peered the pallid moon, 


To Paul M, Pearson 

I read unto a ring of children dear 
Old fairy tales and fancies quaint and queer, 
With dainty songs of love and elfin lore, 
Whereof thy "Speaker" hath such goodly store. 
And now this evening by the hearth-fire's light. 
While early springtime yearns across the night 
For April hours when sweet field-larks shall sing 
And emerald meadows with their music ring, — 
I turn thy leaves and rove again with thee 
Amid the charms of thy anthology, 
Finding full many a favorite loved of old 
And more endeared by memory's fairy gold. 

Old friend, what recollections seem to wake 
As through thy volumes my glad way I take, — 
Bright recollections of old times afar 
When by thy window watching many a star 
Climb the blue heavens, I listened with delight 
While thou didst charm away the drowsy night 
With poetry's enchanting, rich appeal; 
O glamour of the midnight with its seal 
Of mystery that made that music seem 
As beautiful as some remembered dream ! 
O mellow voice whose kindly sympathy 
Illumed alike both mirth and tragedy. 
Giving new charm to olden songs and lays 
Beloved by me since childhood's magic days ! 

— Such genial thoughts, old friend of mine, arise 
As I review with memory-gladdened e^^es 
This ample row of books, and rove with thee 
The pleasant paths of thy anthology, — 
Thy treasure-house of pages that rehearse 
In touching story and melodious verse 
The sentiment, the pity, and the cheer 
That make this life so wonderful, so dear ; 
Such, Paul, the memories that come to-night 
Beside m}^ hearth-fire's softly-glowing light. 


yohn Burroughs at Swart hmore 


i^Set to inusic hy Gabriel L. Hines) 

r^HAUTAUQUA has come like a wonderful friend, 

She has wakened our hearts with the magic of youth, 
She has cheered us with charm of her music and song. 
She has touched us with beauty and truth. 

Chorus : 
Chautauqua, Chautauqua, we love thy kindly name; 
Chautauqua, Chautauqua, we glory in thy fame. 
We give thee honor, love and praise 
For old Chautauqua's "Seven Joyous Days." 

Chautauqua has let in the light of the dawn, 

She has banished beliefs that were useless and old ; 

And glad with the glory of Truth in our hearts. 

We move toward the fair Age of Gold. Chorus 

Chautauqua, thy spirit shall live in our hearts. 
Thy truth and thy beauty remembered shall be. 

With joy and with gladness we give evermore 

Our faith and affection to thee! Chorus 


l-I E strayed along our woodland ways. 

That goldenest of golden days. 
When all the hills were wrapt in dream. 
And on our slow and tranquil stream, — 
Yellow, and red of heart, and brown, 
October's leaves were edd^ang down. 
He hearkened to the wood-bird's call. 
He watched the waters plash and fall, 
And heard the plaintive crows that flew 
In wavering flight against the blue, 
He plucked the gypsy florets sweet 
That clustered lowly at his feet ; 


yohn Burroughs at Swart hmore 

And tapped upon the squirrel's door, 
A sharer of his sylvan lore. 

Adown the leafy forest path, 
Strewn with autunnial aftermath — 
Where poplars rained their faery gold, 
And musky odors of the mould 
Were mingled with the breath of weeds 
And thistles dropped their silver seeds — 
He led us on our idle walk 
And cheered the way with happy talk, 
Oft broken while he paused to see 
Some well known sign of plant and tree. 
By right of common brotherhood 
He hailed the wildings of the wood; 
He seemed familiar friend of each — 
Spice-bush, and oak, and bending beech : 
The tiniest bloom, the hemlock tall — 
His genial love included all. 

And when we left the placid Krum 

And to the college halls were come, 

The eager youth about him stood 

To hear him talk of field and wood 

And glean from his delightful words 

Fresh tidings of our homeland birds. 

He thought our campus wholly fair, 

Enwreathed in vague and misty air. 

And praised our widespread pastoral view 

Fading afar in smoky blue 

To where the river's silver rim 

Washes the meadows soft and dim. 

And in his quaint and kindly speech 
I thought we somehow seemed to reach 
Neai'er his wholesome sympathy 
With rock and flower and forest tree. 


Seed-Time and Harvest 

For me the memory cannot fade 
Of rambling down our wildwood glade — 
When leaves fell soft as elfin snows — 
With Walton's brother and Thoreau's. 
October, 1902 


{To the Graduating Class, 1898) 

TN these imperial hours 

While musical whispers fill the air 
Blown from odorous banks of flowers, 
From clover-meadows and billowing wheat-lands fair ; 
While the young, untroubled, innnaculate year 
Is glad in her radiant prime, 
I turn from the vernal greenness clear 
To muse on the distant harvest-time 
And the mellow harvest-gold. 

When the summer is waxing old. 

And over dreaming garden and field 

No sound is heard but the locust's drowsy tune, 

And the great white motionless clouds are asleep in the 

And the earth at peace shall lie, — 
Ah, then shall the promise of virginal June 
In woodland and ripening orchard be revealed! 
From the laden trees shall pour 
The mellow fruits and nuts in their glossy coats ; 
And every breeze that floats 
From the old gray barn with its open door, 
Fragrant breaths from the heaping mows shall bring. 
The happy countryside will ring 
With the joys of the harvest-home; 
And up to heaven's dome 

Shall praises ascend to the bountiful Giver of all, 
For the ffolden midsummer grain and the fruits of the fall. 


Seed-Ttme and Harvest 

Thus natux-e's genial and generous growth is fulfilled, 

And the blossoms of spring prepare 

For autumn's perfect fruitage fair, 

As the all-wise Maker has willed 

In His one great law each creature obeys and knows, 

His law that governs the mighty oak and the delicate rose. 

In this image of bud and blossom and new-sown field 

Ripening slowly to harvest's plenteous yield, 

High-hearted youth may behold the type 

And symbol of man's long striving 

Ere yet for God's rewards he is ripe, 

Ere yet at the glorious goal arriving 

He receives life's highest guerdon and crowning meed. 

O brothers and sisters ours, through vernal days 
Well and patiently have ye sown the seed ; 
Now with a noble hope 3^e gaze 
O'er many a fertile meadow and pleasant lea. 
And dream of your summer's strenuous hours 
And the far-off harvest-home to be. 

O what have ye gained in these shady bowers 

That nourished your fervent youth; 

What gifts has the Mother Revered of us all 

Bestowed on her latest progeny? 

Has she bidden 3^ou take to your hearts calm Truth, 

And Honor, with clear unwavering eyes, 

And their sister. Faith, that ever points to the skies? 

Has she opened wide the magical door 

Whence ye looked on ancient and godlike men ; 

Inscribed for you with immortal pen 

Socratic wisdom, Shakesperian lore? 

Has she made you responsive, emotional. 

Touching your souls with a music fine. 

Attuning 3'our ears to the harmony 

Of Nature's rolling cadences divine? 

Has she given a courage pure that can never 


To the Class of igoy 

Suffer ignoble counsel or sordid aim, 

So leading jou to love forever 

Righteousness, Reverence, Beauty, and Peace, and Fame, 

And to seek for these with endless, high endeavor? 

Whether your fields of life be far or near, 

By native valley or hill, or beyond the seas, 

Give freely, O generous hearts, of your best ! 

Enrich the world with your gifts of courage and cheer; 

Uplift the world with your tender ministries, 

Untiring in noble deed and exalted quest. 

These be the words that shall guide you aright — 
Words of the leader* whose coming we honor to-night — 
To feel, to know, and to do! 

O cherish and follow that maxim your lifetime through; 
Feel, know, and do, and your harvest-home shall be 
Beautiful, perfect, and free! 


V^OU of the star-bright hopes. 

You of the faith elate. 
Soon to pass forever 

Forth from Swarthmore's gate, — 
Yours be achievement splendid 

In the golden years to be. 
And ever in storm and sunshine 

God keep you whole and free! 


QTILL come they, true lads and lasses. 
As the years and the seasons renew; 
Yet some of our gladness passes. 

Friends of Nineteen-Seven, with 3'^ou. 
Though you vanish like sunlight on water, 

Yet your memory shall live with us long 

■^President Birdsall 


To the Class of igoy 

Who cheered us, each son and fair daughter, 
With friendship, with dream and with song. 

With friendship a'nd dream from these portals 

You pass on the river of life 
Far echoing with names of immortals 

Who triumphed o'er trouble and strife. 
O still as 3'^ou fare on that river 

And float on the far-winding stream. 
You will love and remember forever 

Old friendship and music and dream. 

At Swarthmore they never can perish — 

Our visions of light and of truth — 
Their charm and their beauty we cherish 

In this home of perpetual youth. 
Of our work we are seldom aweary, 

Nor oft does the pathway seem long. 
Where the days are made blithsome and cheery 

With friendship, with dream and with song. 

The light and the lore of the ages, 

They live for us still through the years ; 
Still live the old minstrels' great pages. 

Still speak the great prophets and seers. 
How beauteous is Learning, here blended 

With magical memories that seem 
To make all our college years splendid 

With friendship and music and dream ! 

O friends, the old earth is adorning 

Herself with the mantle of June, 
Aglow with the ichor of morning 

Once more is her spirit atunc ; 
For earth growing weary and olden 

Wakes to hope and to hunger supreme, 
She needs youthfnl hearts that are golden 

With friendship and mtisic and dream. 


My Classmate s Book 

And you who go forth on the morrow, 

Courageous and cheerful and strong, 
Will banish the earth's ancient sorrow 

With your friendship, your dream and your song. 
Still they come to us, true lads and lasses, 

As the years and the seasons renew. 
Yet some of our gladness passes, 

Friends of Nineteen-Seven, with you. 


(Acknowledgment of the Dedication of their "Halcyon'') 

«T UCKY Thirteen," believe me, is a Class 

Of many a merry lad and bonnie lass, — 
Of dramatists and dreamers, altruists. 
Musicians, orators, and humorists, 
Actors and athletes, poets and play-boys. 
Who soothe our sorrows and increase our joys; 
All warm of heart, all fond of harmless fun; 
But quitters, thugs or cowards, not a one; 
Cousins of yours and mine, firm friends and true, 

Fitted to plan high deeds and put them through. 

* * * 

Honored am I, whose else forgotten name 

The "Halcyon" shall illumine with its fame; 

"Non omnis moriar" (as Horace said) 

While Nineteen-Thirteen keeps me from the dead. 

Then gratitude unto this kindly Class 

Of many a lively lad and bonnie lass ! 


T TPON my shelf of volumes well beloved. 

My Walton and my Wordsworth and my Lamb ; 
And kind Jane Austen and her later kin — 
Singers and sages, dreamers, kindly wits, 
And wise interpreters of life, I place — 

* "European Beginnings of American History' 


Of Other Times She Seemeth 

By Pater and by Goldsmith, Burke and Yeats, 
And near quaint Herrick, for his country charm — 
My classmate's comely and delightful book, 
Because it seems so consonant with these ; 
And in its eloquence subdued, its peace. 
Its seemly flow and harmony, I find 
A blend of Hellas and of Holicong. 


(Candidate for the U. S. Senatorship) 

\^I7ITH his pure manhood and integrity 

He comes like some fresh breeze to sweep away 
The mists and cankers of corruption foul. 

And bring the dawning of a better day. 
From Plato and from Sophocles he drew 

His inspiration for that higher way. 
Here in these old and well-loved Swarthmore halls 

In his young manhood's dear and golden day. 
God haste the hour, now or another year, 

When Palmer and his kind shall crush for aye, 
With pure strength of their noble statesmanship, 

The "politics" of Penrose and of Quay ! 


/^F other times and other tastes she seemeth. 

As though she stept from some old folio's page, 
A spirit come from Shakespeare's ancient England 
To charm our prosy age. 

Sister of jocund shepherd-girls idyllic 
Who chant their roundelays in Spenser's page. 
She streweth meadow-flowers from ancient England 
Across our prosy age. 

O may she keep her happy heart and spirit, — 
Happy and blithe as if from Herrick's page, — 
Refreshing still with breath of ancient England 
Our grey and prosy age ! 


On Whit tier Field 


LJOW may I tell the beauty and the charm 

Of that sweet girl most gentle and refined, 
Whose simple goodness conquered every foe ; — 

How warm of heart she seemed, how loyal and kind! 


''Veter Pan" 

^O delicate and whimsical her power, 

So tenderly she drew the merry elf, — 
I almost fancied in that happy hour 

That we were seeing Peter Pan himself! 

"The Little Minister" 

'T'HE beauty of that hour I shall remember 

Like fragrance of some splendid garden flower, 
Its sun and shade like summer and December, 
Its gipsy charm and wit and fairy power. 


(After an atJiletic victorij, November, 1899) 
TPHE valiant and the beautiful were there. 

On that proud night around the festal fire, 
Chanting triumphal songs, a joyous choir 
Of forms fantastic in the ruddy glare. 

And when that gracious group of damsels fair 
To draw the massy wain did all conspire, 
Methought young vestals round some sacred pyre 
Paced in the dim and mystic Roman air ! 

Enchantment seemed above the field to hang 

And hold us with its glamour-laden spell. 

While through the shadows rang our rosy glee, — 

A scene whose weird romance shall with us dwell 

Long as the glory of the victory 

Of those high-hearted youths whose deeds we sang. 


Swart hmore Songs 


V\7HAT mcmoried delight belongs 

To all my thought of Swarthmore Songs, 
To all my thought that ycarncth so 
For college years of long ago ! 
O, Swarthmore Songs, you hold a spell 
Beyond the reach of words to tell ! 

When the cares of life o'ertaJce us. 

Mingling fast our locks with gray. 
Should our dearest hope betray us. 

False fortunes fall away, — 
Then we banish care and sadness 

As we turn our memories o'er. 
And recall the hours of gladness 

'Neath the garnet of Swarthmore. 

"The Garnet" calls me far away 
To blossom-time in virgin May, 
Or drowsy nights in early June 
When mandolins beneath the moon 
Were throbbing soft in measured beat 
To songs melodious and sweet, 
To songs that make old days arise 
And live again for loving eyes 
And loving hearts whose memories flow 
From out the golden Long Ago ! 

Staunch and gray thou stand'st before us 

On the campus fair. 
Thy high spirit guarding o'er us 

Who thy blessings share. 
Thee we praise with songs of gladness. 

Name thy glories o'er; 
Hail to thee, oh Alma Mater! 

Hail, all hail, Swarthmore! 


Around the May -Pole 

O "Alma Mater," thine's a spell 

Beyond the reach of words to tell; — 

Its kindly cadence bears us back 

On Memory's remotest track ; 

Its magic music touches tears 

Of loyal longing for the years 

Of youth, — the years we live once more 

When sound the Songs of old Swarthmore ! 

O Swarthmore Songs, you bear us back 
On Memory's enchanted track, 
For in your music lies a spell 
Beyond the reach of words to tell ! 


LJOW may I hope this page shall be 
Worthy, gentle friend, of thee ! 

Could I but capture the song of birds. 

Or breathe a rapture of wonderful words, — 
Then might I not despair, 
Then might my lines declare 

The charm of this "lass with the delicate air." 

Foam of the flower and scent of the sea 
Have given their joy, their joy, to thee, 

Bonnie girl. 
May sunlight and laughter and song 
Live in thy happy heart for long, 

Gentle friend! 


{In Somerville Hall, 1906) 

T T was a merry, merry sight ! 

Across the soft and dreamy night, 
Amid the music and the light 

I see them dancing yet — 


Around the May -Pole 

The peasant people, quaint and small, 
The fairies and the gypsies all, 
The gentles leading down the hall 
The centuricd Minuet. 

Four handsome lads in silver coats, 
With filmy fichu at their throats. 
To Mozart's old melodious notes. 

With stately step and slow. 
Led out four damsels fair of face, 
Whose old-time dress and antique grace 
Brought for an hour into that place 

The charm of Long Ago. 

The Spanish girls in gipsy red, 
By gallant bandileros led. 
In airy mazes spun and sped 

While music rose and fell; 
And ever in the dream^^ dance, 
With rhythmic swaying and advance. 
Like pictures out of old romance 

They held us by their spell. 

And O the jolly jolly tars. 

Rollicking through the hornpipe's bars— 

In truth they were the comic stars 

Of all the merry crew! 
And how harmonious and sweet 
The music flowed, as lithe and fleet. 
The peasant girls with twinkling feet 

Around the May-pole flew ! 

And who in words could e'er portray 
The handsome lads and lasses gay 
Who danced in wholly charming way 

The quaint A^arsovienne ; 
Like gentlefolk of high degree 
They seemed — that courtly company — 


At an Art h,ecture 

O who may tell when we shall see 

Such charm and grace again! 

Too soon, too soon it fades from sight, 
The pageantry and music bright ; 
And out across the moonlit night 

It vanishes away. 
But Beauty cannot die, I deem, 
And oft in memory 'twill seem 
To haunt us like a golden dream — 

That magic night of May ! 


C\ H, strange indeed it is to hear 

From living voices sweet and young. 
In plangent cadences and clear, 

The accents of that ancient tongue 
Which poets wrought to harmony 

Sonorous, splendid, rich, and grave. 
Long ere across the Northern sea 

Our Saxon sires their war-keels drave ! 

And that old pleasant Plautine fun, — 

How quaint and far away it seems, 
Like droll and merry fables spun 

By hearth-fires in forgotten dreams ! 
Ah, "Plaudite!'' comes all too soon: 

Farewell, young friends, we part for home ; 
But musing 'neath the wintry moon 

My yearning heart still dreams of Rome. 


(M. N. C, '07) 

CHE made us love the artists of her love, 

With eager voice melodious and low 
Showing how vivid and how vital still 
The painted dreams of men of long ago. 


The Old English Pastimes 


{May-Day, 1909) * 

O vision delightful, — 

The viarching of morrisers over the scene. 
The romping of villagers over the green, 
O vision delightful! 

T) RIGHT with an ancient charm and long-lost joy, 
These old-world pastimes, — bringing to our day. 
Our sombre day of thought and anxious care. 
Some childhood echo from the far-off years, 
Of harvest songs and rustic revelry 
Among green lanes and ever-fragrant fields 
In that Old England of our wistful love. 

How blithesome and honnie! 

rippling and wavering music, still play; 

O rustic folk; dance through the long holiday, — 

So blithesome and bonnie! 

See, round and round the village how they go. 
In soft young springtime hours ; when daffodils 
Begin to peer, and every orchard-bough 
Is green with tender foliage ; see them swing 
With rhythmic footing down the country lanes, 
Where merle and mellow-throated mavis chant 
Beside old ivied walls and mossy gates, — 
Warble and chant the April hours away. 

exquisite measures. 

Stepped out to the piping of jocund old airs 
Like echoes of wakes and of old country fairs. 
What exquisite measures! 

The Springtime in Old England woke again 
And shepherds fluted soft arcadian airs 
For girls who danced the haves and rustic rounds 
And sang their rondels down the woodland lawns ; 


Pierrot and Pierrette 

While morriscrs with dick of boots, and beat 
Of rhythmic clubs', and tinkle of small bells, 
Lent antique charm and color to the scene. — 
A picture out of Hcrrick seemed it all, 
Sweet with old half-forgotten memories 
Of Devon lanes and apple-orchards white 
And bowering groves where merry youth did roam, 
While flowery Maytime followed in their steps. 

O moment of sorrow. 

As dancers and morrisers vanish away. 

And the cloxvn and the hobby-horse cease their blithe 

O moment of sorrow! 


{The Somervillc Play, 1916) 
T^EAR Pierrette and Pierrot 

Came from out of the long ago 
To teach fond folk to-day 
That Home can heal our every woe 
And Love all grief allay. 

What did I see as the blithe Pierrot 

Danced in the candle-light.^ 
Some old city of long ago 
-Where harlequin hid his heart of woe 

And flamed like a spirit bright ; 
Some old city whose minster-towers 

Soared high over the Square 
Where harlequin scattered his fancy's flowers 
And romped through the golden languid hours, 

Enchanting the idlers there. 

Dulcet voice and delicate air 
Rhythmic motions wondrous fair ; 
Sleepy song to a sleepy tune. 
Drowsy-sweet as a rose in June; 


May Day, igi6 

A face of light and a heart of woe; 
And dear with the charm of the Long Ago — 
All these I saw in Pierrot. 

What grief I felt for the fair Pierrette 

As she lighted the ruddy fire 
And saw the table duly set 
For her careless lover ! Poor Pierrette — 

Her warm heart's dear desire 
Was to win the love of the blithe Pierrot, 
And her little heart was heavy with woe 

As she drooped by the ruddy fire. 
O dreamy-dear with her fairy grace. 
Her winsome ways and child-sweet face — 

What grief she should suffer so ! 

But lovers' moods are not for aye; 
And at last there comes the sunny day 

When Pierrot no more shall roam. 
The light-heart lad so foolish-fond! — 
He knows at last love's rosy bond 

And finds his heaven at home. 

Dear "Maker of Dreams," this happy ending 
Was of thine own beneficent sending! 

It happened all so long ago ; 
But Pierrette and Pierrot 

Came back again to-day 
To teach us in their idyl old 
That round us lies life's dearest gold 

And Love can every grief allay. 

MAY DAY, 1916 

/^N May Da}' morn a gentle Lady spoke to us of 

In that old century of his so dim and far away ; 
And in the rapture of her words I barkened to the little 



May Day, ipi6 

And dreamed of wandering in Kent to welcome in the 
With Chaucer, with Chaucer among the Kentish meadows. 
To zvander and wonder and welcome in the May! 

And then at noon to Wilmington I traveled on the trolley, — 
A paradise of fields and blooming orchards all the way, — 

And there at Quarterly Meeting, among the quiet Quakers, 
I fear my thoughts were wandering and very far away, 

With Chaucer, with Chaucer, at singing of the morning 
A-setting out from Southwark to welcome in the May: — 

For recollection bore me back to May-Day once at Oxford 
When by the drowsy silver Thames I rambled all the 
Among the yellow daffodils on Berkshire's green and 
golden hills. 
And mused on Chaucer's England so dim and far 
away, — 
When Chaucer, Dan Chaucer crossed o^er that stream at 
And wandered in the fields of Kent to welcome in the 

And then in waning golden afternoon I hastened home 
By woodland and violet-bank and blossomed apple- 
To see our girls a-gathering upon our Swarthmore campus 
With music and with merriment to welcome in the May. 
In truth it was a witching scene ! 
With ribbons and with garlands gay 
And baskets filled Avith flowers of May, 

They circled 'round the green; 
And then with wreath of red and blue. 
Their symbol of devotion true. 

They crowned their winsome Queen. 


The Saga of Sixteen 

And as I watched them dancing there 

In that poetic evening air, 

Those damsels delicate and fair, — 

Their passing pageantry of joy, immortal seemed to me; 

Such loveliness can never die, 

But must in recollection He, 

And through all coming years its beauty shall remem- 
bered be ! 

O, friends, who saw that charming scene. 
Do you not sigh for meadows green 

And long to roam with Chaucer to welcome in the May, — 
With Chaucer, with Chaucer, among his flowerij meadows. 

To wander and wonder and welcome in the May! 


{A Toast for Commencement Day, 1916) 

I sing of '16 in my Saga! I sing and I say 
It will seem lorn and lonely when you have all wandered 

T^EAR "1916," we shall surely miss you! 

We saw your cousins and your kinsmen kiss you; 
We saw you going through your graduation 
Firm and courageous with no hesitation. 
We saw the leader of the College bless you, 
(Although we saw no holy priest confess you.) 

Our genial Dr. T r has addressed you 

And with his wisdom duly has impressed you. 
O, he's a blend of Socrates and Burroughs ; 
He's reaped a lot of comfort from life's furrows. 
If you can look on life with eyes as sunny. 
You'll glean like him large store of golden honey. 

O, "1916," we shall miss you badly! 
We'll have to face the next semester sadly. 


The Saga of Sixteen 

No more, no more, we'll stop and look and listen, 
While '16's maidens on the campus glisten. 
Ah me, we shall miss you, '16's, miss you all and each one, 
With your wit and your beauty, your music and inno- 
cent fun. 
O, many's the moment of pleasure you've given to me 
In the years you've sojourned in the shelter of Swarth- 

more's roof-tree! — 
I was fond of your Phoenix, and found it both faithful 

and fair; 
It mingled the gay and the grave with a sympathy rare. 
The Faculty followed its hints and were helped to a cure 
Of more than one ill by its judgments so sound and so 

Your Halcyon held me for many a memoried time, 
In love with its legends, its art, and its jocular rime; — 
I verily valued your Volume (excepting indeed 
Two pages of prose by the pen that's inscribing this 

/ sing of '16 in my Saga! I sing and I say 
It will look lorn and lonesome when you have all wan- 
dered away. 

1 was charmed with your music, your songs and your 
carolling clear, 

often and often I'll hear it in memory's ear ! 

1 was charmed with your Library "silence" while duly 

you read ' 

As over our books bent each eager and beautiful head. 
I was charmed with your acting in many a heart-stirring 

play, — 
And most by the drama you gave on that golden June 

When Falstaff, the fat and the farcical, gladdened us so 
With his pomp and his pride and his boundless ambition 

laid low! 

« * * 


Watching the Stars 

O, "1916," we shall see you in College no more, 

And onl}' as ghosts will you pace o'er the Library floor ! 

You will seek your "own people" wherever those dear 

ones may be 
By farmstead or village or far by the murmuring sea. 

All me, we shall miss you, '16's, miss you all and each 

With your wit and your beauty, your music and inno- 
cent fun! 

/ sing of '16 in my Saga! I sing and I say 

We'll not see your equals for many a wearisome day. 


(Read at the dedication of the Sproul Observatory, 
the gift of Williayn Cameron Sproul, '91; June, 1911) 

"1^7 HAT noble joy to watch the stars. 

To scan the moon's vast mountains, ages old. 
Great Saturn and mysterious Mars, 

And Venus flaming through the sunset's gold! 
What noble happiness to view 
Uncharted constellations strange and new. 
And meteors trailing golden fire 
Beneath Orion and the lordly Lyre ; 

To watch the wondrous Pleiad sisters seven. 
And pallid nebulae that swim 
In silver silence cold and dim. 

And comets hurtling through the heights of heaven ! 
— And O Avhat noble privilege to teach 

That old august Chaldean lore, 
And follow the illimitable reach 

Of systems far beyond Time's farthest shore. 
Where the Almighty hath empcarled 
The fields of space with world on wandering world I 


Jf^ ate king the Stars 


And tlien from these supernal dreams, how sAveet, 

Returning to this well-loved scene, 
To find the daisies tossing round our feet, 

And ramble 'mid the shadows green 
Of these embowering trees ! 

Such contrasts gather 'round this dome, — 
Opening on boundless stellar mysteries, 

And nestling 'mid the verdant foam 
Of these dear woodlands and familiar hills, 
Whose beauty our affection fills — 

So near, so near are heaven and home. 


Here, many a lustrous, tingling night. 

Through long uncounted hours. 
The watcher of the stars shall scan the sky. 

Heart-simple as the child that hunts for flowers 
In meadows warm and bright — 

Beholding through the giant glass 

The heavenly pilgrims in procession pass — 
The mighty planets robed around with light 
Of their attendant moons. 

Like sultans moving to their rest 
In drowsy silken noons 

Far in the slumbrous silence of the west. 
Unending constellations shall he see 
In stately pageantry 

Of purple splendor, streaming on through space 
Celestially and with celestial grace. 
— How can we dream of base or low 
Here learning God's great chart to know ; 
How can our souls dwell but upon the heights, 
Pondering the heavens through majestic nights! 


Now, to the donor and his classmates here, 
Ours be thanksgiving full and deep. 



The College Chimes 

May he — may they — in recollection keep, 
Through year on rolling year, 
Our loving gratitude. O may they be — 

This kindly Swarthmore class — 
Enshrined in friendliest memory, 

'Till this great dome and heaven-searching glass 

In far, far distant years, to nothingness shall pass. 


{To Swarthmore College, the bells and clock in this 
tower were presented hy Morris Lewis Clothier, betokening 
his love and loyalty, and commemorating the Twentieth 
Anniversary of the graduation of the Class of '90.) 

T ONG may these mighty bells peal forth. 

Long throw their voices on the air. 
And celebrate through far-off years 

The Class whose noble name they bear; 
Long may they mark the rolling hours 

With mellow music, wild and sweet. 
And solemn harmonies that surge 

O'er college hill and village street ! 

I love their solemn harmonies, 

Their pensive and pathetic notes ; 
I love the golden carillon 

That from the belfry grandly floats. 
I love to think how grey old men 

And little children pause to hear 
These sweetly-chiming bells that make 

Our Swarthmore campus yet more dear. 

No war-alarums may they ring, 

But only tranquil songs of peace. 
And messages of brotherhood 

O'er fields where blessings never cease. 
No navies may they hail but those 

That calmly sail the summer blue, 


My Friendly Pine 

The vast cloud-fleets that float on liigh 
And fade like phantoms from the view. 

Soft will their mellow echoes fall 

Among the bookish aisles below, 
Soft will they toll the precious hours 

For eager hearts that come and go. 
Soft will they sound for him who reads 

And weighs the words of ancient sage, 
And softly blend their harmonies 

With every well-loved poet's page. 

Long may they pour their pensive notes, 

Their mellow music wild and sweet, 
Their solemn harmonies that surge 

O'er college hill and village street ; 
Through sun and storm, through joy and woe, 

Long may they peal across the air. 
In token of the loyalty 

Of Swarthmore's son whose name they bear ! 


(Beside the Library) 

T LOVE to watch the snow-flakes softly sifting 

Among the branches of my friendly Pine, 
When purple twilight wanders by the windows, 
And memories waver past in mystic line. 

then the dark green branches seem to whisper 
And wave to me with myriad little hands 

That lead the heart away to wander dreaming 
Among the far-off golden summer lands. 

1 love to hear the gales of deep December 

AVail through its branches with unresting roar, 
When high o'er-head the wild white geese are hasting 

To happier homes upon some balmy shore; 
And in the scented sunsets of green April 


The Library Dove 

I listen to the croon of calm content 
That floats from out the old Pine's drowsy branches 
Whose breath with odors wild is redolent. 

Pine-tree with thy softly-swaying branches 
Above the purple twilight's ghostly snow, 

Singing and sighing to me through my window 

When zephyrs murmur or Avhen wild winds blow: — 

1 love thee for thy fragrance and thy beauty, 
Unfailing and all-faithful comrade mine. 

Through golden morns and noons and purple twilights, 
Most musical and dreamy-hearted Pine ! 


/^NE morning last week, 

When the soft rain pattered and dripped, 
I raised a library window, 
And all of a sudden the dry and dusty air 
Was flooded with wet sweet wind 
That breathed from the beautiful pine whose arms 
Shadow the eastern wall with fragrant green. 

A reader, strolling in, 

Asked for a copy of Hedda Gabler, 

And pored over pages of morbid talk 

About sick souls and scandal 

And sorrowful things, — and heard not at all 

The wet wind chanting, chanting 

Its song in the boughs of the beautiful fragrant pine. 


Columba, O Columba, come again. 

And murmur softly at my window-pane! 

/^NE day a dove in at our window flew, 
A comely dove with neck of iris hue. 
He seemed bewildered, far from home, and lost, 
As if on some wild wind he had been tossed, 


Fairy Melody 

Then in the after-lull had drifted down 
And sought a refuge in our friendly town; — 
I know not, — but for weeks he lingered near, 
And every day I heard his murmur clear 
And soft as music from a fairy flute 
Or far-heard throb of mandolin or lute, 
So gently would he murmur. 

He was tame, 
And every morning to the window came 
To eat the oats and corn I scattered there; 
Then would he croon, and preen his feathers fair 
And entertain me with his murmur sweet. 
While sideways on the sill with dainty feet 
He stepped, with air most solemn and sedate 
And head aslant, as pondering the fate 
That kept folks bound to books through such long hours 
While all outdoors was bright with sun and flowers ! 

At last, in late October, off he flew. 
Alas, the lovely creature never knew 
How much I miss my little fair^^ friend. 
And how I hope a kindly fate will send 
This darling dove some day again to cheer 
Our dusty hours with murmured music clear. 

Columha, with your lovely Latin name. 
Come back again as long ago you came. 
And croon your pensive songs upon the sill; 
Tap on the window with your little bill 
And tell us how the sunshine and the flowers 
Rebuke us for our long and bookish hours. 
Columha, Columha, come again. 
And mtirmur gently at my window-pane. 



HEN Phebe Lukens sings. 
How softly on the ear 



Whefi Gabriel Htnes D?^ earns O'er Keys 

There falls a fairy melody 

Most delicate and dear; 
And far among the meadows 
In twilight's purple shadows 

I sec the nodding daisies dance, — ■ 
When Phebe Lukens sings ! 

Among the hills I hear 

The low and tender tune 
Of little silver-singing streams 

At drowsy end of June, 
And blackbirds warbling over 
The honey-hearted clover, 

And winds ablow in orchard boughs, 
When Phebe Lukens sings. 

The happy, happy days of old, 

The summer days of childhood's gold, 

Come back to me 

In memory, 

When Phebe Lukens sings. 



Y^I^HEN Gabriel Hines dreams o'er the keys, 

I hear the songs of birds and bees ; 
I see the leaves of autumn red and yellow 
Drift softly down the melancholy air, 
In drowsy twilights when the moon is mellow 
And fairy voices seem to greet us there. 
My heart is touched by memories golden; 

I sail on peaceful summer seas 
Of recollections sweet and olden, 
Of memories and visions golden, — 

When Gabriel Hines is dreaming o'er the keys. 

When he is dreaming o'er the keys 
With those immortal Rhapsodies, — 


Remembered Music 

I see Hungarian girls among the mountains 
Rejoicing in their happy holiday; 
1 see them romping 'round tlie forest fountains 
Or through the greenwood fading far away. 
Old songs and hallads they are singing 

Beneath the ancient forest trees; 
I hear their girlish laughter ringing, 
I hear their happy, happy singing — 

When Gabriel Hines is dreaming o'er the keys. 

When he is dreaming o'er the keys, 

I muse on heavenly mysteries. — 

I hear the roll of organs, and the thunder 

Of yearning hymns adown cathedral aisles ; 

I hear the flutes of shepherds piping under 

White-blossomed trees by covmtry lanes and stiles. 

— O Music, like a lordly river 

Of bright and beauteous harmonies, 
Let me recall the charm forever 
Of memories flowing like a river — 

When Gabriel Hines is dreaming o'er the keys. 


(To E. R. S.) 
HENE'ER I hear a harp of golden tone, 


Or mark the plaintive moan 
Of ring-doves, or at rosy end of dark 
Hear the first morning lark, — 
Then I recall the cadence dreamy-low 
And soft adagio 

Of thy calm music, as I heard thee plaj^ 
At twilight of a dream-remembered day. 

Chopin and Schumann in their tenderest mood, 
And dear MacDowell musing in the wood, — 
These, these I heard thee play 
At drowsy close of da3^ 



Moszkowskr s "Arabesques' 

When o'er a hill I hear a bird-song sweet 

Fading in soft retreat, 

Or watch low waves upon the ocean shore 

Falling with faint-heard roar 

And foam of tumbling froth, — in Memory's ear 

Murmur for me the clear 

And fluty notes I heard thee gently play 

At drowsy close of day. 

At twilight of that dream-remembered day. 


{In their College Recital) 

VV/^ITH sunny faces bright and gay 

They put their hearts into their play 
And poured forth airy round on round 
Of shimmering and lovely sound. 

They seemed a quaint, unworldly pair 
Delighting us with music there, 
And blithe and glad as if the earth 
Were just a place for joy and mirth, 
A place where blooms eternal Spring 
— So magical their music's ring! 


{To H. E. B.) 

T IKE mother-song recalled in dreams, 

Like airs of childhood's day. 
Those sweetly meditative notes 
Seemed floating forth on memory's streams, 
That hour I heard 3^ou play. 
They flowed and flamed like golden motes. 
That in the drowsy noon-tide beams 
^\Tiirl in their fairy dance 
Adown the velvet air. 


T/je CoIIcve Hymns 

O, (lid Mos/kowski drjiw from old roninnce 
Those lovely cjidoiu'os you played me there, — 
AVhile the iinheediiiir crowd 
Gossiped with murmur loud! 


l-I()\V often have thev warmed and cheered, — 
The hynms by memory endeared, 
Poured forth upon the air 
By those loved voices there ! 

Brightrst niul hrst of the sons of thr morning, 

7)</ri7? on our darkness and lend us thine aid. 
Star of the East, t}ie Jiorizon adorning. 

Guide Tchere our infant Nedeemcr is laid! 
Heber's ijreat hynui of Christmas-tide, 

To Gounod's stately music set, — 
Its plaintive llow I elierish still. 

Its patlios I cannot forget. 

Poured forth upon the air 
By those young voices there. 

Thif bountiful eare, tchat tongue can reeitef 

It breatlies in the air, it shines in the light; 

It streams from the hills, it deseends to the plain. 

And SK'eetli/ distils in the de:c and the rain. 

A rich and splendid hymn, indeed. 

One of old Haydn's noblest lays ! 
How many a tnorn I heard with joy 

Its moviiig messages of praise 

Poured forth upon the air 
By those glad voices there ! 

Drop Thii still dexcs of quietness. 

Till all our striz'ings cease: 
Take from our souls the strain and stress. 
And let our ordered lires eotifess 

The beaut 1/ of Thii peace. 


T/ie Ge?itle Piper 

O afkr hours of /rrief and pain, 

Do they not fall like heavenly balm, — 
Our grcat-soulcd Whittier's loving words 
Sweet with their never-failing calm. 
Poured forth upon the air 
By those bright voices there ! 

How often have they warmed and cheered, — 

The hymns by memory endeared, 

Poured forth upon the air 
By those loved voices there ! 


(Dorothy Baseler) 

O OMANTIC and harmonious the flow 

Of her rich music ! I can see her yet, — 
The queenly Lady in her gold and jet, — 
Playing her golden harp. 

The long ago 
Came back at beckoning of her fingers fleet, 
And charmed me as with memories wild and sweet,- 
So plaintive, so endearing was the flow 
Of her rich music on the throbbing strings. 

Deep gratitude to her my glad heart brings 
For those heart-warming hours. 
Dear as the fragrance of remembered flowers 
Whose balmy breath we loved so long ago ! 


{Dorothy McEwen) 

TTHE gentle Piper won all licarts that day. 
So sweetly smiling grief and care away. 
O I could watcli the winsome lass for aye, — 
The soul and center of that old-world play !* 

*At the Mary Lyon School, Swarthmore, May, 1916 


JVitJi yov I Remember T/iv Music 


nn HOUGH flowery May alike with wild November 

I^ass down the drowsy corridors of dream, — 
Yet thee and thy warm heart I shall remember 
Like musie heard beside a haunted stream. 


/^N Easter-morn I heard 

Grieg's lovely shepherd-music played 
LTpon the organ by a fair young maid. 
Who caused the pipes to sing sweet as some bird 
Pouring his joy out to the April sun. 

With gentle tremolo and airy run 

She made the flutes of Springtime blow; 

And out upon the far-olf emerald hills 

I seemed to see, among the daffodils. 

The white-fleeced flocks with movement slow 

Feeding upon the herbage sweet, 

W^hile little lambs with plaintive bleat 

Followed their mothers up the grassy way. 

How delicately did the maiden plaj^ 

Those fluty-soft adagios. 

Bringing her music to its quiet close 

With dreamy echoes fading far away, — 

Leaving in hearts that hunger for the Spring 

Remembered music that shall ring 

In happv memory of that Easter-day! 


(To C. P.) 

\^[7ITH joy I remember thy music, its mingled pathos 

and power, 
As I mused by thy western window in the wonderful sunset 


October s ^ueen 

And heard thee playing Beethoven and thrilled to his 

thunderous tone, 
And Weber's sonorous setting of "Nearer the Great White 

I heard the harmonious measures of plaintive old Irish 

So sweet with Ireland's elfin charm, so sad with her 

centuried wrongs. 

And musing there in the sunset while the beautiful music 

rolled, — 
I dreamed of the fair old fables, I gathered fairy gold ; 
I wandered on lonely islands afar in a lonely sea. 
And this is the cause, my dear old friend, of my gratitude 

to thee, — 
My gratitude for happy dreams in the golden sunset hour 
While I heard thy music's magic, its pathos and its power. 


{Welcome to Mabel Elms) 
¥ IKE carillons of fairyland they rang. 

Those golden notes she sang, 
While beauty, youth and joy before us there 
Made glad the glowing air. 

O, I could listen with delight for long 
To the clear rapture of her throbbing song. 
Poured forth upon the green May night; — 
How wild it was, how beautiful, how bright ! 

— So, in this season of the songful birds. 
Welcome to her and her sweet warbled words ! 


CPENSER'S enchanting pages glow 

With dreamy figures out of old romance; 
Their magic may the heart entrance 
With echoes of the Long Ago. 


October s ^icen 

Here on our Swarthmore campus green, 

Warm-lyiii^ in the soft, autuuimil sun, 

I turn his purple paij^es one by one; — 

And here I con those wondrous words of Keats 

Wliereln lie chants of Autumn's amber sweets, 

And witli sad, tranced nuisic grieves 

For Autumn's stricken leaves. 

I nuise, and lo, a spirit seems to rise — 

October's self, a (^)ueen with languid eyes; 

Drowsy I see lier stand 

On some far hillside 'mid the golden corn, 

A slender sickle in her hand; 

She hearkens to a ghoslly horn, 

A faery horn that bK)ws across the land. 

Greeting the goddess in mild accents clear: — 

Qutcn of the ilrooping year, 

Quicu of the hunters moon, of pale love-stars. 

Of orehard-songs beside the pasture-bars, — 

Unto thji loving heart is dear 

The frag ranee of the lingering rose 

That sends her petaled snojvs 

Drifting ado7cm deserted garden rcai/s. 

Where paling purple pldo.v 

And eorridors of fading hoUi/hoeks 

Like ruined spendtJi rifts teeep for glory gone. 

Dear unto thee the haze 

And glamour that emcrap the n^orld in dream, 

Touehing the air ivith subtle mystery 

And gifting eaeh sloic, languorous stream 

With rieher languor, jchile the yelloxcing leaf 

Falls in the glades, and tree by tree 

Stands lonely in its grief. 

Pathos is thine, sad Queen; — 

Pathos and mournful ^femory eombine. 

And xi'ith them doth liegret ent^cine 

Her garlands reft of green. 


Alumnus and Freshmanne 

Like elfin notes of sweet but unseen birds 

Did sound those sorrowing words, 

While here among late-lingering flowers, 

Forgetful of the drowsy-footed hours, 

I tasted golden sweets 

In Spenser's volume and the songs of Keats. 


Senex. — Ah, gentle Freshie, is it thou, 
Or doe I idlie dreame? 
Methoughte I sawe thee y ester-eve 
By Krumme his icie Streame. 

Discipuliis. — Yea, yea, olde Manne, I skated there 
Beneath ye pallide Moone, 
But nowe ye Holydayes are come 
And we goe home eftsoone. 

Senex. — And tell me, Freshie, whyle at home 
Ye happie Studentes byde. 
How will they passe ye cheerie Houres 
At golden Christmasse-Tyde? 

Discipulus. — Methinkes that they will straighte forgett 
Ye toilsome Carke and Care 
That did erstwhyle oppresse theyre Heartes 
In yonder Classe-Roomes there. 

Senex. — And tell me, Freshie, of ye Houres 
They'll spende on Mathematickes, 
On Calculus and Algebra 

And Conickes and Quadratickes. 

Discipulus. — Such Houres, olde Manne, will be as scarce 
As Swallowes in December; 
These Artes, and Physickes, too, I feare. 
They'll trye to disremember. 



And wh3'le they trim ye Christmasse-Tree 

And carve 3^6 Turkie juicie, 
No doubts the3^'ll snub deare FAia 

And even Wordsworth's Lucy! 

Theocritus and Xenophon 

Will be, I think, de frop. 
As likewise will Racine and Sa7id, 

Voltaire and V. Hugo. 

Senex. — Ah, welada^^e ! how doe thy Wordes 
Recalle those Seasons golden, 
When we wente home at Christmasse-Tyde 
In Yeares remote and olden. 

We too forgott oure Care and Carke 

As b}^ ye Fireside jollie 
We wreathed with Heartes as light as Ayre 

Ye Mistletoe and Hollie. 

For in this Tyde through all ye Lande 
We shut up Shoppe and Schoole, 

And drowned oure Sorrowes in ye sweete 
And happie Dayes of Yule ! 


T) ACK to the homeland hills we go, with their old sweet 

magic light. 
Where kind hearts wait with greetings warm and loving 

eyes are bright. 
Swarthmore is dear to our loyal hearts, and dear each 

memoried hall, 
But the homeland hills and the red home hearth, ah, these 

are best of all ! 

Home to wistful childhood's haunts and the streams and 
woods afar. 

Where we loved to watch the sun's low flame and the tremu- 
lous evening star. 


IVhittier House 

Fair are Swarthmore's scenes and fair these days of work 

and cheer, 
But now for home and the Christmas liearth and the kind 

home-faces dear! 

The wide threshold and ivied porch and the chimney's 
wreathing smoke — 

Oh, dreamy-dear the quaint homestead beneath the shelter- 
ing oak ! 

'Tis there we'll rest like harbored ships that rock on the 
welcoming foam, 

And we'll taste once more of the love of kin and the tender 
ties of home. 


{Read at the laying of the corner-stone, 1911) . 

Wl E lay this stone with hopes and prayers ; 

We dedicate to love and truth 
These rising walls that through long years 
Shall guard our children and our 3'outh. 

Through long, long years I see them come, 
Each sweet and peaceful Sabbath day, 

Beneath the trees with happy song 
Or gathering flowers along the way. 

Our children's children yet to be 

I see with forward-gazing view, 
Mingling in friendly fellowship, 

Learning the good, the high, the true, — 

Here where we cherish Whittier's name 
Who dead yet speaketh for all time. 

And yieldeth to our yearning hearts 
The blessing of his noble rime. 

O may our prayers and kindly hopes 
For these our children and our youth 


A Summer- School Memory 

Find plenteous fruits of peace and love 
And friendly fellowship and truth. 


A UTUMN comes with its leafage red and golden, 

Its woodland fragrance borne on the breezes cool; 
And back to Whittier House they come, the children 
And friendly teachers, back to our First-Day School. 

Faded afar is the dear and peaceful summer 
With all its kindly joys and its quiet dreams, 

Its wholesome glee and its fun in field and forest 
And along the leafy paths by the singing streams. 

And now, Dear Hearts, shall not the year before us 
Be our best, when its story comes to be told* — 

Turning our summer dreams to the spirit's harvest 
Bright and rich as the woodland's autumn gold! 


T AST First-day afternoon, afar in our Swarthmore 

I walked with some fellow-students, friendly and merry 

and kind. 
Under the leafy boughs and the fragrant, mysterious hem- 
And down the lonely lanes and over the flower-strewn 

On high the magnificent clouds wandered and changed, and 

Afar in the sleepy west, like ships on a shadowy sea ; — 
And there in the June-sweet country our spirits gathered 

From the forest's balmy breath and the jubilant song of 

the birds. 


The Vanished Rose 

O many a pensive time since then, as I heard the lectures, 
Or lingered over the music and fun at the good-night hour 
(The beautiful tender songs, the fairy voice of the viols, 
And the quaint and humorous "poems" recited so zest- 
Or sat with the quiet Friends in the dreamy hours of 

There on the college campus, under the bowering trees, — 
With gratitude have I thought of that walk in the 

wonderful woodland 
With those genial fellow-students, so friendly and merry 
and kind. 


(£. W. H.) 

"PJELICATE beauty, budding thought, 

Pensive moods from dreamland brought, — 

Each charm that maidenhood endears 
Was hers in her few wistful years. 

She seemed a sweet and radiant flower 
Blossoming brightly for an hour, 

A youthful rose whose petals fell, 
For all we cherished her so well. 

Gracious and modest, friendly, dear. 
Still seems her soul to hover near ; 

And still her kind and winsome face 
In hearts that loved her keeps a place ; 

And still the tear regretful flows 

At thought of her, — the vanished rose. 


A Swarthmore Garden 


{The Poems of Helen Scudder Cochran) 

A TENDER spirit speaks from every page 

In messages of love and hope and cheer, 
Right from the heart of her vhose memory 
We keep as something beautiful and dear. 


/^UR Swarthmore fields are full of larks ; 

I love their glad sweet cries. 
Each Spring I marvel at their song 
With startled fresh surprise. 

To County Court each day last week 

I walked, and all the time 
I heard like wild enchanted bells 

The field-larks' fairy chime. 

I served upon the Jury there. 

And all the drowsy day 
I dreamed of Swarthmore's lovely larks 

In meadows far awa3\ 

The Court is rich in tragedies 

And humors by the way; 
But law-suits love I less than larks, 

And shall to my last day ! 

Our Swarthmore fields are full of larks, 

And all the drowsy day 
In dreams I heard their carol sweet 

In meadows far awaj'. 

April, 1916 


"r\ EAR Friends, I wish to have a word with you 
About a place on College Avenue; 


A Swarthmore Garden 

Just where it crosses over Chester Road 

A genial gentleman has his abode. 

'Tis in the evening comes his true delight; 

Yes, often far into the moonlit night 

He labors with his hose and with his hoe 

To make his lilies and his roses grow, 

Trimming and training many a dainty flower 

Takes his attention hour on happy hour ; 

And so his garden blooms with beauty bright 

To give his family and his friends delight, 

— O do you seek for peace and pleasant hours? 

Then come with me into this realm of flowers. 

Of all his garden's charms he most is fond 

Of its fair central feature, the dark pond, — 

A placid pool that holdeth in its heart 

The pictured heavens ; here little fishes dart 

And show their golden beauty in the sun, 

And silver-sided minnows many a one; 

And oft at night the tadpoles and their dads 

Come out and float upon the lily-pads. 

— O do you seek for peace and pleasant hours? 

Then come with me to this bright haunt of flowers. 

I love to linger near his hollyhocks 

And by his beds of white and purple phlox, 

His marigolds and spicy bergamot 

And daffodils and sweet forget-me-not. 

I love to watch his poppies softly shed 

Their gorgeous petals pink and white and red. 

And see on summer nights the mirrored moon 

Soft-shining in this fairy-small lagoon 

Where water-lilies grow, — the peaceful pool 

So dark and still and beautiful and cool. 

— O do you seek for peace and pleasant hours? 

Then come with me where bloom the lovely flowers 

Raised by our genial friend whose chief delight 

Is in his garden, beautiful and bright. 


Christmas in Swarihmo?^e 


T N memory I live it o'er, 

That day we rambled by the shore 
Of Krum, that winds and wanders 'neath the hills 
So peacefully, so calm, — its beauty thrills 
The happy heart of him who wanders there 
Forgetful for awhile of cark and care. 

And when blithe lass by lass mused on the stream, 
Enraptured with its early springtide dream, 
How charming was the forest-picture there 
Of those "dear hearts" so pensive-fair, — 
Each one a simple woodland queen 
Beneath the friendly hemlock's silent green ! 


t^AR b}' a forest pathway wild and free 

There stands a sturdy beech, — our "Woolman Tree" ; 
And wandering there from month to month we mark 
The record of our rambles on its bark. 


r\ SWEET-SAD beauty of that plaintive song!— 

Its kindly cadence haunts me long and long, 
Heard as we drifted on the placid breast 
Of Krum, while sunset gilded all the west. 



LL round the Christian world this holy day 
The bells ring out their peals of merry glee, 
And hosts of happy children, fair and dear, 

Are gathering 'neath the blessed Christmas Tree. 

And here at home in our well-loved Swarthmore 
What happier place on Christmas-day to be, — 

Where kindly friends, the dear familiar friends. 
Are gathering 'neath the solemn Christmas Tree ; 


A Swarthmore Christmas Dream 

Where gray-haired old folk, groAvn-up boys and girls, 

All gladly join the mirth and melody 
Of Swarthmore's troops of winsome children sweet 

Who gather 'neath the merry Christmas Tree. 

Dear hearts, the hope and joy of Swarthmore homes, 

Far down the ripening century I see 
Your cheery faces year by golden year, 

Still gathering 'neath the well-loved Christmas Tree. 

May Christ, whose birth we celebrate to-day, 
Protect you through all years that are to be, 

And peace and joy and honor still be yours 

Who gather 'neath the blessed Christmas Tree. 


(This little play, acted by children of Swarthmore 
First-Day School, touches on our Swarthmore landscapes 
and legendary memories.) 


Little Mother Katharine Hayes 

The Four Dreamers 

Margaret Jackson Marjorie Sellers 

Elizabeth Pollard Henrietta Walter 

The Lad (who found the Christmas Tree) . .Newlin Smith 
Dream Spirits: 

William Penn Robert Joyce 

Jane Lownes Betty Walter 

Benjamin West William Paxson 

LucRETiA Mott Betty Sellers 

Other Friends (accompanying Jane Lownes and Lucre- 
tia Mott) 
William Jaquette, Joseph Smith, Susan Roth, El- 
eanor Hayes, Barbara Jenkins, Carol Paxson, Ruth 
Pownall, Dorothy Tomlinson, Blanche Sheldrake. 
Scene — Whittier House fire-place. Little Mother 
seated before the wood- fire. As each Dreamer tells of her 


A Swart hmore Christmas Dream 

dream, the Dream Spirit passes before Little Mother and 

When the Lad brings in the Christmas Tree, the Dream 
Spirits return and look on while the others sing the Carol. 

{Enter First Dreamer) 

Little Mother — O welcome, welcome, dear child, — 
hast thou found a Christmas Tree for us who are gathered 
here at Whittier House? 

First Dreamer — No, Mother dear; but I fell into a 
strange dream. I had wandered far down the banks of 
Krum Creek, beside the gleaming Avaters, among the beau- 
tiful wild trees and over the peaceful meadows. I felt 
drowsy, and fell asleep near old Upland; and lo, in my 
dream I beheld a stately Quaker of long ago. 

Little Mother — And who was this Quaker of the 
ancient time, dear child.'' 

First Dreamer — I believe it was the great and good 
William Penn himself ! 

He gazed across the land, and pointing to a forest on a 
far-off hill, he said: "There on yonder hill, in future days, 
shall stand a Quaker College. There shall stand Whittier 
House likewise, the gathering-place of the kind-hearted 
Quakers, young and old." 

( The Spirit of Williajn Penn passes slowly across the 

Little Mother — Dear child, it truly was the spirit of 
the great and good William Penn ! 

Listen, my little one, does he not stand for the thought 
of Quaker Goodness? And shall not we, of to-day, cherish 
his memory, and try to be like him.'' 

{Enter Second Dreamer) 

Little Mother — And welcome to thee, dear little one. 
Where is the Christmas tree thou wert searching for.'' 

Second Dreamer — Truly, Little Mother, I found not 
the Tree. I strolled far up the land, among the lonely 
windy hills, and down the little valleys where the rabbits 


A Swa?'thmo?^e Christmas Dream 

have their homes. So weary I was, O Little Mother, that 
I fell asleep beneath a sheltering green hemlock that whis- 
pered and sang in the breeze. 

Little Mother — What dream came to thee there, dear 
little one, beneath the softly-singing green boughs of the 
fragrant hemlock, far in our wonderful woodland .-^ 

Second Dreamer — O, Little Mother mine, to think of 
it ! I saAv in my dream a noble woman of the olden time, 
long, long ago. 

Little Mother — Canst thou tell me her name.'' 

Second Dreamer — Jane Lownes, it was ! She stood 
beside a cave in the side of the windy hill. What did my 
dream of her mean, Little Mother.'' 

Little Mother — My little one, Jane Lownes was the 
good, brave woman who came from England, in the early 
days, and made a home for herself and her children in the 
cave, until they could build a cabin. 

(Spirit of Jane Lownes passes) 

She is the spirit of Quaker Perseverance and Courage; 
and we keep her memory ever green, like the beautiful 
hemlocks beside the winding Krum Creek. 
(Enter Third Dreamer) 

Little Mother — Where is thv Christmas tree, my dear 

Third Dreamer — O, Little Mother, so sleepy I was, — 
I could go no further than the College Campus ; and there 
beside a dear old ancient house among the friendly trees, I 
dreamed a happy dream. 

Little Mother — Tell us of thy dream. 

Third Dreamer — Hear me, then, — I fell asleep to the 
sound of sweet violin music that floated out from the 
living-room ; and lo, in the antique doorway I seemed to 
behold a Quaker boy of the olden daj's long ago. He 
gazed out at the snowy clouds, and he gathered daffodils 
for his dear mother. Who could he have been. Mother 

(Spirit of Benjamin West passes) 

A Swarthmore Christmas Dream 

Little Mother — O, I know! He was Benjamin West . 
Children dear, you all know his stor3\ Let us long hold 
him in our hearts, because he showed the Friends how to 
enjoy the beauty of God's world, and he made men rejoice 
in his art of painting. And his Mother's daffodils still 
bloom beside the old Benjamin West House ever}' spring. 

{Enter Fourth Dreamer) 

Little Mother — No Christmas tree, child? 

Fourth Dreamer — No, Little Mother; but I had a 
loveW dream ! 

Little Mother — A lovely dream ! All of you dream- 
ers ! Now, tell us of thy dream, dearie. 

Fourth Dreamer — On the College hill, I saw in m}' 
vision a crowd of Quakers, of nearl}' 50 years ago. They 
gathered around a gentle, sweet-faced Avoman, who was 
planting a little sapling. In my dream I heard them call 
her Lucretia Mott. 

(Spirit of Lucretia Mott passes) 

Little Mother — O truly, our well-loved Lucretia 
Mott ! How much we owe to her ! She loved the thought 
of the Quaker College ; and we cherish her memory for the 
sweetness and warm friendly kindness she shared with 
everyone who sought her aid. 

' (Enter the Lad with the Christmas Tree) 
Little Mother — O, here, is our Christmas Tree at last ! 
Dear son, while thy sisters and brothers fell asleep and 
dreamed, — thou wert finding the Tree, I love theiii for 
their dreams, and thee for thy deeds. 

Dreams and deeds, — do they not make life happy and 
noble ! 

All sing: (Air — "Old Oak en BucJcet") 

O here 'round the hearth let us welcome Old Christmas, 
At Whittier House 'neath the beautiful Tree ; 

We welcome our friends who have loved and have labored 
To hand on the spirit of Holiday glee. 


Home Scenes at New Year 

The homes of old Swarthmore they never shall fail us ; 

Wherever we fare, let us still hold them dear. 
The old Swarthmore legends shall ever inspire us, 

And long shall we love our bright Whittier House cheer ! 
{Repeat Chorus softly) 


/^H, the heavy freights go clanking by with their lan- 
terns red and grefen. 
And fade away down Morton-May till their lights no more 

are seen ; 
The swift expresses hurtle past, and their white smoke fills 

the air 
And drifts on high in the dreaming sky like the rise of 

silent prayer. 
The great oaks stand in our little glades, like giants grey 

and sere. 
And their branches strong in the wind's wild song complain 

of the winter drear ; 
But 'tis little we care as with dear ones by and with happy 

hearts elate, 
Secure and warm from the wintry storm, we dream by the 

ruddy grate. 

Along the Krum the evergreens droop and swing their 
branches low. 

And fairy-fine their dark outline is etched on the drifted 

And many a footprint soft is seen of the wood-folk wild 
and wee, 

Where over the white of the starry night they have trav- 
eled from tree to tree. 

And Oh, to think of the happy homes and their kindly fire- 
side joys. 

And along the street the faces sweet of winsome girls and 


Home Sce?ies at New Year 

The jingling bolls and the racing sleds and the dogs at the 
post-office door. 

And the shining shops with their lollipops and their toys 
and lights galore; 

The Library Chimes that sweetly ring in the still and 
frozen night, 

And Michael who waits by the railroad gates to guide our 
steps aright; 

And the carols clear at Christmas dawn, and Santa Les- 
ley's calls, 

And the magic glow on the purple snow when the wondrous 
twilight falls ! 

And Oh, to think of Music's charm that in church and 

home we hear, 
That swells and floats in golden notes to enchant the 

happy ear ; 
I could hear forever, and weary never, those dear-loved 

airs of old. 
From the viol's song, or the silvery flute, or from stately 

organ rolled ! 

Oh, many happy neighborhoods are scattered the country 

But none more dear for friendly cheer than our own be- 
loved Swarthmore ; 

So we seem to have our hearts' desires, and kindly our fates 

As on New Year's night in the fire's soft light we count our 
blessinffs all. 


Verses from 

Brandywine Days 

Dedicated to 
James Monaghax 

"Alike we loved 
The muses'' haunts, and all our fancies moved 
To measures of old song." 



/I MEMORY, call back the hours 

Of childhood's day among the flowers 
That grew in gardens sweet and old 
Beneath those skies of misty gold 
That made the summers seem divine 
In ineadows by the Brandywine! 

Call back the breezes warm and sweet 
That drowsed across the yellow wheat 
And made the sylvan valleys ring 
With music light as dryads sing. 
With music faint and faery-fine 
In meadows by the Brandywine! 

Dear Memory, call back again 
The soft and silver wraiths of rain 

Coming to the Farm 

That bent the butter-cups, and swayed 
The sleepy clover-heads, and made 
The hosts of dancing daisies shine 
In meadows by the Brandy wine! 

Call back the glow-worm's elfin fire 
That wavered where the marshy choir 
Made reedy music ghostly-light 
Across the fragrance of the night. 
Till lucent stars began to shine 
O'er meadows by the Brandywine! 

far, sweet hours, what strange regret 
Brings tears for you to-night, while yet 

1 would not have your magic be 
More than a dream — a dream — to 7ne, 
A dream of vanished hours divine 

In meadows by the Brandywine! 


QO here to this old farmstead have we come, 

A quaint red-gabled solitary house 
Breathing of peace and silence musical, 
Beauty and quietude and drcamfulness, — 
An old ancestral home among its fields, 
Its garden flowers and swaying orchard boughs. 
Here in the heart of this still countryside 
Where broods the atmosphere of elder days, 
Fragrant of memories and sentiment 
And happy friendship. Here sleeps soft repose, 
A pastoral repose and pensiveness, 
Virgilian in its dreamy, tranquil charm. 
— O how my heart goes out in happy thought 
To this old Home and all its memories, 
Its golden past, its hallowed links that bind us 
To those dear souls gone with the long-dead years ! 


Our Old Village 



N ancient mansion falling to decay, 
A blacksmith's shop and seven cottages 
Among their gardens, and one white farm house, 
Make up this hamlet by the Brandj'wine, — 
A sleepy village wrapt in drowsy peace 
And lazy silence, save when at the forge 
A horse is shod, making the anvil ring 
With rhythmic music ; or when farmers meet 
Beside the watering-trough and talk of crops, 
The roads, the weather and the price of wheat. 
Above the village silently and slow 
The Brandywine moves under sylvan shades. 
But at the smithy sweeps forth in the sun 
And murmurs down a pebbly slope, and winds 
With merry song below a garden wall. 

Like to the village Goldsmith dearly loved 
It seems to me, this hamlet quaint and small, 
Where Time stands still, and ancient usages 
Give it an air of peace and old-time charm. 
— And I remember happy half-hours here 
Beside the blacksmith's door, watching his fire 
Send up its sparks, or listening to the droll 
Converse of rustic humorists or the tales 
Of mighty fishing in the Brandywine. 
O kindly, unambitious, homely hearts, 
'Tis good to come among you once again 
And hear your friendly greetings. Little change 
The years have wrought in your secluded homes ; 
And while the busy world has hurried on 
With restless energy, you are content 
With quiet tasks and quiet country ways. 

The silver Brandywine with lulling song 
Soothes all the sunny air, and drowsily 
The locusts hum among your garden trees, 


Garden Sono; at Twilicr/if: 

While from the farms that hem vour hamlet in 
The ripening corn sends down its fragrant breath ; 
And tranquilly as in the tin}' town 
Of old thatched roofs and gabled cottages 
Whence came my sires in old-world Oxfordshire, 
Life slumbers on in your untroubled shades. 
— Peace and contentment evermore abide 
In your quaint hamlet by the Brandj^wine ! 


T AVILL not ask for more, — 

Only one love-song sorrowful and golden 
Beside this twilight shore, 

Sweet as Ulysses heard in legends olden, — 
I will not ask for more; 

Beside this twilight shore 

One love-song with its pathos sweet and olden, — 
I will not ask for more, — 

Yearning with sorrows and with memories golden 
Beside this twilight shore. 


nPHE sunset's golden flush, as daylight closes. 

Wraps all the garden in a golden dream. 
The while you sit, dear heart, among the roses. 
And watch the sleepy stream. 

The marigold droops low, the poppy dozes. 
The lotus slumbers in a golden dream, 

And your own queenly head among the roses 
Bends toward the sleep}^ stream. 

Now let my lute with music's heavenh' closes 
Mingle its magic with your golden dream. 

Until the moon's soft fire above the roses 
Silvers the sleepy stream. 


T/ie Brandy wi?ie at Slumberville 

Dream on, dear love, while every flower-heart dozes, 
Let all your soul dissolve in golden dream; 

And I will guard my saint among the roses 
Beside the sleepy stream. 


CIR WILLIAM loved his life of lettered ease 

Among the shadows of his Surrey trees. 
Among his gardens and his books and bees ; — 
I love his memory that he loved all these. 


A DOWN the dales of green Newlin, 
Among the peaceful farms it flows, 
And soft and dreamy is the song 

It chants and murmurs as it goes 
Beside the woodland cool and still, 
The Brandywine at Slumberville. 

Where blow the freshening winds of June 
Across the green and silver oats, 

And in the fragrant clover fields 
The robins trill their faery notes. 

It drifts below the emerald hill 

That guards old drowsy Slumberville. 

Its clear green waters softly sing 
Among the green and weaving reeds. 

They softly sing among the stems 
Of green and crimson water-weeds. 

They softly sing beside the mill 

And dark mill-race at Slumberville. 

By daisied meadows deep and sweet 

Where tranquil cattle dream and dream, 

Our little river rambles on 

Full-fed by many a tribute stream ; 


Old Chester County 

how its gleam and beauty fill 
My vision of old Slumberville ! 

By homes where honest folk and true 
Have lived for generations long 

Among their golden gardens old, 
It wanders down with sleepy song, 

By smithy and by rumbling mill. 

The Brandy wine at Slumberville. 

1 hear its music faery-sweet 
Beneath the silver stars of June, 

I hear its melancholy voice 

Beneath the yellow harvest moon 
Grieving that autumn frosts must fill 
The golden dales of Slumberville. 

O never comes to me the song 

Of thrushes in the poppied wheat, 

Or under shadowy orchard boughs 
The ring of childish laughter sweet, 

But thy rich music haunts me still, 

O Brandywine at Slumberville! 


/^LD Chester County, — land of our delight, 

Founded and watched by Penn, here in the wilds 
Of his wide Commonwealth, in those far days 
That now so ancient seem and so remote. 
So dim with all the mist of vanished years: 
Dear Chester County, — loved of all thy sons, 
And best, I think, by those who forth have gone 
From out thy borders, who around their hearths, 
In twilight hours when sentiment awakes 
And old remembrance warms the lonely heart. 
Speak fondly of thy woodlands and thy hills ; 
Thy meadows musical with harvest cheer; 
Thy long white barns where o'er the odorous mows 


^^ Dance of Nymphs^ Evening'" 

The never-resting swallows sweep and sweep ; 
Thy drowsy hamlets where the blacksmith's stroke, 
Measured and clear, is ofttimes the sole sound 
That breaks the quiet calm; thy breezy uplands 
Browsed o'er by lazy cows and fleecy sheep, 
And, best of all, thy softly-flowing stream, 
Thy Stream of Beauty, — silver Brandywine. 

Thy pleasant name, old Shire, from English vales, 
There in the west by winding Dee, was brought; 
And truly, of all tracts in our broad land. 
These meadows soft and wooded hills most seem 
Like those of ancient pastoral Cheshire there 
In old-world England. 

And thy townships, too, 
Pennsbury, Nottingham and Fallowfield, 
Bradford and Warwick and the Coventries, — 
Their names are redolent of England's fields 
And England's ancient thorpes and manor-lands. 
And green Newlin, two centuries ago 
Settled and 'stablished by an Irish squire. 
The friend of noble Penn, — green-hilled Newlin, 
That, with old Drumore in the sister shire 
Of Lancaster, my heart hath ever loved. 
Rich in ancestral memories as they are, — 
Their names I here inscribe with filial hand. 


T MUSE before a landscape of Corot, 

Wherein the Painter doth express 
With soft, ideal loveliness 

All that his loving heart would have us know. 
All that his loving eye hath seen, 
In this old-world idyllic dale, 
Where silvery vapors pale 
Hang o'er the little copse of tenderest green, 
And from the flowery turf 


Among the Golden Wheat 

Whose half-blown roses toss like faery surf, 
Fair sisterhoods of slender poplars rise, 
Birches and tremulous aspens, delicate trees, 
Diaphanous, vague and cool, — 
While by the soft marge of the woodland pool, 
Clear-sculptured on the saffron evening skies, 
Sweet dryad forms sway in the breeze. 
Sway, — and veer, — and softly sing 
Enchanted harmonies to greet the Spring. 



N these last hours of happy-hearted June, 

When dewy clover-heads their fragrance spill. 
When all the morn and drowsy afternoon 

The clear, pure sunshine sleeps on mead and hill, 
On orchards old and gardens green and still, 

To bless with fertile heat, — 
What joy to wander to some shady height 
Where field on field lies spread before the sight. 
And muse all day among the golden wheat ! 

Across the valley go the laden teams. 

Piled to the ladder's top with sweet, light hay. 
There Avhere the Brandywine ensilvercd gleams 
As by low willowed banks it makes its way. 
In far-off daisy fields as white as they 

The young lambs softly bleat ; 
And little children through the happy hours 
By yonder wood are gathering pale wild-flowers. 
While I do naught but muse among the wheat. 

How pleasant and delightful is it here. 

Through this long, fragrant, languid day of June, 

To watch the farmers at their harvest cheer 

With merry converse and with whistled tune, — ■ 
To see them share their simple stores at noon 
'Neath some old tree's retreat; — 


Anions the Golden Wheat 

To sec tlio cattle witli dark eyes a-drcam 
Wade in the cooliiifj currents of the stream, 
Wliile I do naught but muse among the wheat ! 

Great snowy clouds are drifting down the sky, 

And o'er the silence of the noon-tide hush 
I hear tlie locust's languorous, hot cry; 

From out the green depths of yon pendent bush 
There pours the lyric music of the thrush ; 

And from this shady seat 
I see the farmer's boys among the corn 
Where they have toiling been since early morn. 
While I do naught but muse among the wheat. 

By mossy fences of this upland farm 

The old sweet-briar rose is twining wild ; 
Dear flower, its old-time fragrance hath a charm 
To wake forgotten thoughts and memories mild 
Of those far years when as a pensive child 

I came with wandering feet 
To pluck these flowers, or ramble hand in hand 
With him who never moi'c across this land 
May gaze or muse among the golden wheat. 

Lo, while I dream, the wind stirs in the leaves, — 

And hath this lovely day so quickly flown? 
The harvesters have left the yellow sheaves, 
And I am here upon the hills alone ; 
One sad ring-dove with melancholy moan 

The vesper-hour doth greet. 
Across the fields the sun is going down, 
It gilds the stee])les of the distant town, 

And I must cease to muse among the wheat. 

Old Chester County, land of peaceful dales, 
Of misty hills and shadow-haunted woods, — 

I love the silence of thy pastoral vales. 

The music of thy Brandywine that broods 


Nature s Healin 


And dreams through leafy summer solitudes 

With murmurs dim and sweet. 
All my child-heart, all glamour of old days, 
Awake when thus I walk thj' country ways 

And muse in June among the golden wheat ! 


"Above all vocal sons of men. 
To Wordsworth be my homage, thanks, and love." 

'T'HE tired city and the hot-breathed streets, 

The little children sad and wistful-ej^ed, 
Pale, weary mothers, all the hopeless throng 
That crowd the stifling courts and alleys dark, 
Cheated of beauty, doomed to toil and plod 
Year in, year out, in endless poverty 
And seemingly forgotten of their God, — 
These passed from sight but not from memor}^ 
As forth I journeyed by wide-spreading lawns 
And lavish homes of luxury, and saw 
Extravagance, display, and worldly pomp, 
And joyless people striving hard for joy. 

I grieved for those sad children and the throngs 

Pent in hot city walls ; I grieved for these 

Unthinking devotees of pride and show. 

What medicine is there, what healing power, — 

I mused, — to calm and soothe these suffering hearts 

Stifled by poverty or dulled by wealth? 

Is there no anodyne to heal them all. 

No gift from God to lift them and console 

And bring again the golden age to men? 

Lo, turning to the loved and friendly page 
Of Wordsworth's book beside me on the grass 
By silver Brandywine's Arcadian stream, 
I read how Nature never did. betray 
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, 


Old Hills My Boyhood Knew 

Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
From joy to joy; for she can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues. 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men. 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
The dreary intercourse of daily life. 
Shall e'er prevail against us or disturb 
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
Is full of blessings. 


CHOULD I not hold them dear, 

These harvest-laden hills around me here, 
Old hills my boyhood knew. 
Green hills beneath what skies of blue ! — ■ 
Hills looking over fields with deep peace crowned, 
Peaceful, beloved, ancestral ground. 
Who would not count it joy 
To roam the hills he roamed a happy boy! 

Far off I see the men among the wheat ; 

The ox-teams, patient, slow; 

The heavy sheaves piled up in yellow row; 

I hear the field-lark's carol sweet. 

The blackbird's gipsy call ; 

I see the tasselled corn-fields smile 

For mile on emerald mile. 

And cattle browsing under oak-trees tall 

In meadows starred with tender flowers. 

The long rich summer hours 

Are none too long on this green height. 

Beneath these gnarled old cherry trees 

Where many a charming sight 

Enchants me, — where the balmy breeze, 

This dreamy summer day, 


Dream Ship^ 

Comes odorous from hills of hay 

And fields of ripening oats, — 

Where great cloud-shadows slowly pass 

Across the waving grass, — 

Where upward from the valley softly floats 

The song of children wading there 

In plashing waters silvery and cool, 

Like oreads beside a forest pool 

With dark and streaming hair. 

Across the landscape with low drowsy song 

And golden flash and gleam, 

Behold how happily our winding stream, 

Our Stream of Beauty, flows along! — 

Now under pendent boughs of silent woods 

'Mid leafy solitudes, 

Now rushing over rocks set long ago 

By Indian anglers in gigantic row, 

Now flowing where the flossy heifers feed 

And white sheep nibble slow 

In many a deep-grassed solitary mead, 

Now winding under willow-bordered banks 

Where lilies grow in yellow ranks 

And water-weeds nod o'er the placid stream 

Wrapt all in sleepy dream. 

O these are sights to make the pulses glow, 

To touch with magic power. 

To waken memories of long ago 

And many a long-lost summer hour! 

— Old harvest-laden hills around me here, 

Should I not hold you dear, 

Old hills my boyhood knew. 

Green hills beneath those skies of blue! 


HTHE great white ships go sailing 
Above the Brandywine, 

Dream Ship^ 

O'er leagues of azure trailing 

Their fleet in fleecy line, 

Then disappear forever 

Above our little river 
In silver mist and amethyst 

High o'er the Brandywine. 

I watch them as they wander 

High o'er the Brandywine, 
And see them vanish yonder 

In strange and ghostly line. 

Their masses none may number 

In waking or in slumber, 
So far aloft their passage soft 

Above the Brandywine. 

The great white ships go streaming 
Above the Brandywine, 

Their phantom pennons gleaming 
In pure and snowy line. 
With sure and steady steering 
That knows no wreck nor veering 

At golden noon or 'neath the moon. 
High o'er the Brandywine. 

Through realms unknown to mortals 

High o'er the Brandywine. 
Up under Heaven's portals, 

They sail in stately line; 

Through rainbow and through thunder. 

Through airy fields of wonder, 
Their constant way they hold all day 

Above the Brandywine. 

Through dawn's enchanted splendor 

Above the Brandywine, 
Through sunsets rich and tender. 

They pass in wondrous line. 


Home Scenes 

In working and in play-time, 
In harvesting and hay-time, 
Right on they stream, those ships of dream, 
High o'er the Brandy wine. 

O mighty cloud-ships sailing 

High o'er the Brandywine, 
In solemn glory trailing 

Your fleet in heavenly line, — 

Above our little river 

Unresting and forever, 
Your course you hold o'er seas of gold 

Above the Brandywine ! 


{To W. H. R.) 

T THOUGHT of thee, old friend, and knew thee wise. 
True lover of our Chester County skies. 

Why should I read the golden page of Keats 
When all our fields are rich with balmy sweets. 
When all our woodland ways are fair Avith flowers 
And birds that sing away the summer hours? 
Why over Walton's "Angler^' should I dream 
When here beside our soft and silver stream 
The meadows are as green, the heavens as blue 
As ever Walton's old-world rivers knew? 
Why ponder Shelley with such fine despair 
When Newlin sunsets are as rosy-fair 
And our great hill as lovely landscapes yields 
As Shelley knew in well-loved English fields? 

"Sweet Tliemmes! runne softly, till I end my Song," — 

Ah me, the centuries have rolled along 

Since Spenser sang his marriage-song divine; 

Yet here beside the dream}' Brandywine 

In this green oaken glade, his lovely la}' 


Oxford s Idealist 

Sounds its immortal melody to-day. 
By these green softly-sloping Newlin hills 
Are blooms as sweet as Herrick's daffodils, 
As fragrant here the roses in the rain 
As Herrick loved in any Devon lane; 
And I who worship Wordsworth over all 
And to his wondrous verse am willing thrall, 
Were not more happy in Westmoreland woods 
Than in these long-loved oaken solitudes. 
In Cumbrian pastures find not deeper charm 
Than in the tranquil fields of this old farm. 

Last night I mused o'er many a golden lyric 

Of Wordsworth and of Keats and quaint old Herrick; 

Their old-world music carried me in dream 

To many an English mead and English stream ; — 

But when this morn I watched the soft sun shine 

On green pools of the sleepy Brandywine, 

I thought of thee, old friend, and knew thee wise, 

True lover of our Chester County skies. 

— Wander afar we may, but in the end 

'Tis Chester County holds our hearts, old friend! 


Walter Pater 

jLJ E loved the comeliness upon the face 

Of things, their excellence and grace, — 
Old memoried mansions, rippling wheat, 
The eyes of children wistful-sweet. 
The vesper-songs in Oxford's stately nave. 

He cherished recollections of still hours 

Of musing in grey old-world shrines. 

Or reading his loved poets 'mid the vines 

And honey-hearted flowers 

Of Oxford's slumbrous gardens ; and he gave 


A down the Brandy wine 

Deep utterance to these in perfect speech 
Such as the Greeks alone might reach, — 
Moving with music, golden-sweet of tone, 
Glowing like some rich stone, — 
A speech that may not be 
Surpassed in charm or high felicity. 


■pjEAR VIRGIL, could there be 

More deep felicity 
Than under oaks and elms delighted lying, 
To hear the shepherd swains 
Piping their rustic strains 
In amaboean measures softly dying; — 
To hear the hum of bees 
Below the orchard trees 

And woodland doves in woodland shadows singing; 
To watch the slow herds feed * 

Across the grassy mead 
Where harvest cheer and harvest hymns are ringing! 

Dear Virgil, through all years 

Thy tranquil charm endears 

These tranquil woods and fields of my affection; 

Each shepherd song of thine 

Beside the Brandy wine 

Touches my heart with kindly recollection. 

O let me never cease 

To love thy pastoral peace. 

Thy tranquil charm and happiness undying; 

Still let me dream of thee 

In deep felicity 

Beneath thy oaks and elms delighted lying! 


\^7HERE flows our dear idyllic Brandywine 

Through flowery meadows green and deep and fair, 


A down the Brandy wine 

O come in summer afternoons divine ! 

Lay by thy load of care. 
Who seeks for joy at Mother Nature's heart, 

From haste and hurry must enfranchised be ; 
No breath from noisy street or toiling mart 
Her loveliness must stain, 
No memory of pain 
Encloud her great and sweet simplicity. 

A land of peaceful quietude is this, 

Where weary-eyed Ambition comes not near, — 
A home of happiness and rural bliss 

Throughout the tranquil year. 

O come and ramble in these reedy dells, 

These barley-fields and uplands sweet with hay; 
Come hear the lilies ring their fairy bells; 
And by clear-watered rills 
That wimple down the hills. 

And through the tossing millet let us stray. 

Then when the sun is drooping to the west. 

And all the shadows reach out far and long, 
When the wood-pigeon by her lonely nest 

Begins her plaintive song. 
We'll launch our boat, and laying by the oars, 

Adown the Brandywine we'll slowly drift. 
By grassy isles, by willow-shaded shores, 
O'er many a glassy deep 
Where silence seems to sleep, 

And down green, shallows murmurous and swift. 

Wild-roses frail are blowing by the banks, 
Their faces imaged clearly in the tide, 

Rich tiger-lilies droop in yellow ranks. 
And tiny star-flowers hide 

Their tremulous bells amid tall nodding weeds. 
Sweet buds we'll pluck of tender amber tint 

That grow among the water-shaken reeds, 


A down the Brandy wine 

Or by the rustling sedge 
.Along the oozy edge 
Of meadows odorous with peppermint. 

Soft music shall enchant us as we pass, — 

Light zephyrs playing in the drooping trees, 
Thin chirping voices hidden in the grass, 

And lily-haunting bees. 
We'll hear the jocund robin far and faint 

From where he chirps 'mid orchard-shadows cool, 
Or catch some lonely heron's harsh complaint 
As round a bank of fern 
We sweep with sudden turn 

And find him fishing in a gravelly pool. 

We'll float where swaying cedars scent the air. 
The haunt of squirrels and forest-loving birds ; 

Then out again by luscious pastures fair 
Grazed by white-breasted herds. 

And here and there beneath low willow trees 
We'll pass old fishermen of sober mien, 

Who watch their drifting corks in blissful ease 
Or look with lazy eyes 
Along the cloudless skies, 

Well pleased with these long summer days serene. 

Thus while the loitering current bears our boat 

Adown the Brandywine's enchanted stream, 
In happy reverie we'll smoothly float 

And through the twilight dream, — 
Until we see the languid yellow moon 

Above the drowsy hills serenely glide. 
While frogs begin to chant their evening tune, 
And rose and wren and bee 
Are resting silently 

And warm peace floods the sleeping countryside. 


Old Herrick 


LJERRICK, thine Hesperides 

Liveth through the centuries, 
And thine ever-dewy page 
Brings delight to youth and age. 
There the rosy girls and boys 
Share the homely country joys, — 
Harvest-homes and revellings, 
Quintels, wakes and wassailings. 
There we see in dreamings rare 
Silvia and Sappho fair, 
Corinna who at break of da}' 
Went with thee to fetch in May, 
Anthea and Perilla tall. 
And Julia loveliest of all. 
In thy leaf}' Devon lanes 
Piping quaint bucolic strains. 
Neat-herds all their love express 
To the buxom neat-herdess. 

Thy Book the Arcadian life rehearses 
In sweet and soft idyllic verses, 
Silver odes and songs of gold. 
Echoes of the days of old. 
Nor doth it lack the sober page, 
Devotions of thy vicarage, 
Where thou yieldest many a gem 
To the Babe of Bethlehem. 

So we give a crown to thee, 
Prince of Rural Minstrelsy; — 
Nations fail and states decay, 
Kings and senates pass away ; 
'Tis alone the golden Rhyme 
Knoweth not the tooth of Time. 
Herrick, thine Hesperides 
Liveth through the centuries! 


The Brook 


CAID Silvia: "In a vale of Arcady 

I saw a shepherd lying in the shade — 
Some Corydon or Lycidas, methought — 
Soft piping 'mid those flowery solitudes 
Beside his grazing flock. No fairer sight 
Have I beheld in pastoral Sicily, 
By storied Tempe, or Larissa's plains 
Where storks sail homeward through the setting sun, 
Nor by white-templed Sunium on the sea, — 
Than this enchanted scene among the fields 
Of Arcady remote." 

And at her words, — 
Unto my heart, a-fevered with the fret 
Of these our hurried days, a vision came 
Of old-world Hellas bathed in dreamy light 
And sweet with music of the rustic flute. 
Laughter and lyric joy ; of green-lipt springs 
Where oreads and wood-gods joined with Pan 
In rural revelry; far mountain slopes 
Down which the troops of pure-browed Artemis 
Ranged in the jocund chase; and beechen groves 
Beneath whose murmurous foliage dryads gleamed 
Soft-white as mists above the twilight meads. 

— Thus for an hour the clear and golden light 
Of old-world Hellas shone again when Silvia, 
Poetic Silvia, spoke of Corydon 
A-fluting in a vale of Arcady ! 


"Oftentimes I used to look 
Upon its banks, and long 
To steal the beauty of the brook 
And put it in a song." 


The Brook 

T)ELOW the ancient grassy hill it flows 

Among the pastures by the shadowy wood, 
And melts at last into the Brandywine. 
Small willows bend above it, fragrant weeds 
Draw from it sweetness for their golden blooms 
And purple blossoms ; cattle stoop to drink 
And dream and ruminate beside its sands 
And mossy stones ; and from the shadowy wood 
Come shy wood-creatures, — birds and merry squirrels 
And swift ground-hackics, — sip and disappear ; 
So manifold the life its waters feed. 

'Tis here I love to walk at twilight hour 

Beneath the old forsaken orchard trees. 

And near the ancient, quaint "Star-gazers' Stone," 

When o'er the shoulder of the grassy hill 

The sickle moon swings low ; — the cows have gone, 

Shut in the upland pasture for the night; 

The gold and purple blossoms of the weeds 

Hang drowsily ; the birds and merry squirrels 

Sleep safely in their woodland bowers; and all 

The little valley slumbers, save the brook. 

More sweet its melody by night than day. 
So silent is all else ; with silvery purl 
And soft adagios it bubbles down 
O'er elfin slopes and faery waterfalls ; 
It murmurs soft in mossy cool retreats. 
Caresses many a bed of cress, and flows 
Between white stones in tiny sluices swift. 

The twilight deepens into dusk ; on high 
The argent crescent swims above the hill 
Like some white faery island set adrift ; 
Soft night-winds sweep the ancient grassy hill 
And stir keen weedy fragrance, while the brook 
Sings on with ceaseless music. 


Folded are the Roses 

Then, I think, 
Nature most trul}'^ speaks ; 'tis then she yields 
Unto lior devotees lier utmost spell. 
The endless twilight of the mid-day woods, 
Or evening in the dim nnd moonlit fields, 
Are magic hours ! And thee, dear Stream, I thank 
For man}^ golden reveries and dreams 
Beside thy weedy margin while the moon 
Above the old forsaken orchard trees 
Shone softly on thy faery waterfalls. 

{Set to music hy Dr. J. Max Mueller) 

l^OLDED are the roses and the lilies are asleep; 

Slumber, baby dear ! 
In the peaceful heavens now the stars begin to peep ; 

Slumber, baby dear ! 
Far down the meadow the frogs are chanting low, 
Fire-flies are setting all their little lamps aglow. 

Slumber softly, deai'ie. 

After play-time weary. 

Mother sees the sickle moon along the sleepy zvest; 
Slumber softly, baby, slumber softly in thy nest. 
Thy downy nest. 


Cattle from the clover-fields have all been driven home: 

Baby, close thy eyes ! 
From their mothers little lambs no longer wish to roam : 

Baby, close thy eyes ! 
Crickets in the hay-field and locusts in the tree 
Long ago have folded wings and ceased their melody. 

When the stars are gleaming 

Babies should be dreaming. 


^' Sweet Themmes! Runne Softly^' 

Mother sees the sickle moon along the sleepy west; 
Slumber softly, baby, slumber softly in thy nest. 
Thy downy nest! 


Yellow lights are twinkling in the far-off city towers ; 

Sleep, my little child ! 
Village bells are telling to the wind the drowsy hours ; 

Sleep, my little child ! 
Father's put away the scythe, the harvesting is done ; 
Robins in the apple-boughs are silent every one. 

Mother o'er thy sleeping 

Gentlest watch is keeping. 

Mother sees the sickle moon along the sleepy west; 
Slumber softly, baby, slumber softly in thy nest. 
Thy downy nest! 


'< Qweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song^\\ 
Old Spenser's words flow soft as an}" dream 
This afternoon by Brandywine's calm stream. 

This green untroubled meadow-side along. 

Most clear it echoes down the tranquil stream — 

"Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song"; 
O it hath filled my heart of memory long, 

Its quaint, rich music haunts me like a dream ! 

It follows me and haunts me like a dream 

Whene'er I stroll this meadow-side along: 
"Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song," — 
Old Spenser chants forever by the stream. 

O heart of memory, cherish it for long, 
And let old Spenser's golden music stream 
Forever down the meadows of my dream — 

"Sweet Themmes! ru/n/ne softly, till I end my Song." 


After Harvest 


(Landscape by Cuyp) 

T DYLLIC beauty clothes the tranquil scene ; 

The noiseless river winds with sweet delays 
By far champaigns enwreathed in golden haze, 

And groves that softly o'er the water lean. 

Amid the meadow's herbage lush and green 
The quiet cattle rest with drowsy gaze, 
The while this sunniest of summer days 

Goes by in blissful calm and peace serene. 

How dear it were, amid these pleasant meads. 
These misty fields by morning dews empearled, 

To pass our days in simple, homely deeds, 
Forgetful of the fevers of the world; 

And like yon river dreamy in the sun 

To glide unheard away when life were done ! 


T) Y fields where lately waved the yellow wheat 

And where the farmers piled the fragrant hay, 
The meadow-lark is calling clear and sweet, 

And through the drowsy day 
The clouds drift by above the peaceful hills ; — 

I watch their soft reflections in the tide. 

Here where doth smoothly glide 
The Brandywine by ancient Slumberville. 

In old sequestered garden-alleys drowned 

In utter dreamfulness and flowery ease. 
The poppy petals fall \vithout a sound, 

And lazy soft-winged bees 
Follow their honeyed quest with murmurs faint 

'Mid altheas and swa^ang hollyhocks. 

And stately purple phlox. 
And bergamot and lady-slippers quaint. 


After Harvest 

I saw last month among the Goshen dales 

The sun-browned farmers haul the harvest in ; 
I saw them busy in Pocopson vales ; 

And here in green Newlin 
I watched the mowers in among the hay 

Heaping the windrows long and straight and clean, 

And sturdy reapers glean 
The nodding wheat on hillsides far away. 

And here one evening as I lingered late 

I saw the last load coming down the hill, 
Sweep 'neath the cherry tree beside the gate 

And past the mossy mill ; 
And when those final sheaves of rustling oats 

Were added to the barn's abundant store, 

I heard by the wide door 
The "Harvest Home !" ring out from lusty throats. 

But now no more the harvest mirth is heard 

By shady orchard-side or straggling hedge ; 
The fields are silent, save where one sweet bird 

Chirps by the greenwood edge ; 
Only the locusts chirr with pipings high, 

Only the melancholy ring-dove grieves 

Among the willow leaves. 
And rain-crows send from far their querulous cry. 

Along the dusty road wild-carrots nod, 

And thistle-down is wafted through the air ; 
On woodland banks the early golden-rod 

Is swaying richly fair; 
And in the night beneath the golden moon 

Ripe apples drop beside the orchard wall. 

And oft with eerie call 
The shadowy owls give forth their spectral croon. 

How softly now the water-willows show 

Beside the brooks their delicate gray-gr6en, 


Count?y Peace 

And lovely as a landscape of Corot 

Appears each pastoral scene. 
Old Chester Count3''s tranquil fields and woods 

Are sleeping in a languid atmosphere, 

And far away and near 
The misty dream of August basks and broods. 

With tender undersong the Brandywine 

Flows down by mossy stone and quivering reed, 
And he who rightly hears its chant divine 

May take but slender heed 
Of dulling cares that vex the passing hour ; 

Kind Nature's nursling well may muse apart, 

For he, the glad of heart. 
Is brother born of cloud and stream and flower. 


l\/f Y summer days beside the Brandywine 

Are blent with dreams of old-world Lancashire 
And old-world shepherd songs. Thy Calender, 
For many a year, great Spenser, have I loved: 
Thy rustic dialogues I love, — their quaint 
And honest friendliness, their kindly words 
'Twixt simple-hearted country folk. I love 
Thy jocund old-time carols, beautiful 
With music rippling like the meadow streams 
Where feed the white flocks of thy shepherd lads, — 
With plaintive love-notes sung to lasses blithe 
As summer breezes, — and with dear delight 
In all the sweet old English flowers that grew 
In Colin Clout's idyllic country-side. 


p OUNTRY peace, the warbling birds. 
Friendly faces and friendly words. 

Grassy fields and tranquil streams, 
Cloud-lands beautiful as dreams, 


Below the Bridge 

Singing brooks that wander slow 
Where buttercups and daisies grow. 

Old barn roofs where drowsy doves 
Sit in the sun and tell their loves, 

Robins whistling clear and sweet 
Over the acres of swaying wheat, 

Children playing among the flowers 
And singing away the sunny hours, 

Rosy country girls and boys 
Filling the day with happy noise, 

Old-time garden-walks that seem 
Haunts of reverie and dream. 

Poets' books to read at ease 
Under the bowering orchard trees, 

Memories that wistful go 
Back to the golden Long Ago, 

Faith that He who rules above 
Encompasses this earth with love. 

Faith that His mercies never cease: — 
These are the joys of country peace. 


1) ELOAV the bridge the Brandywine curves down 

Through open meadows sleeping in the sun. 
And O so green and soft ! — they seem indeed 
Like upper Thames-side pastures, though more wild 
And more remote from life. The willows here 
So green and silver}^ seem, — I think Corot 
Would have rejoiced to paint them, filmy-fair 
And full of emerald softness as they are. 
Wide realms of grass and nodding weeds are here, 


Below the Bridge 

And at far intervals great hickory trees 
Tower beautiful and stately toward the sky. 
Remote and dim the busy farm-life seems, 
Here where the flickers fly and locusts drone 
In slumbrous chorus, and the lonely crow 
Calls sadly o'er the corn-fields on the hill. 

Below the bridge and at the second curve 
A little island lies, the very heart 
Of this romantic landscape, warm and green, 
A faery island, round whose tiny shores 
The silver water sweeps in steady flow. 
All bubbling, fresh, and exquisitely clear. 
A leafy thicket clothes the little isle, — 
Small willow bushes, sprigs of sycamore, 
And yellow flowers that dip into the stream. 
With white bone-set thick clustered ; not a foot 
Of this small territory but has caught 
Some wandering seed, to grow into green life 
And flourish in the sun and watery air. 

Below the bridge my silent slim canoe 
Bears me o'er bubbling shallows and across 
The calm expanse of peaceful waters green, 
And by the faery isle. The channel here 
So narrow is, the paddle sweeps the grass 
And yellow blossoms as I hurry by 
Adown the foam}^ slope and out be^^ond 
To the long reach below the willow trees. 
Where all is tranquil as a golden dream. 
— O little river shining in the sun. 
Soft meadows, stately trees and elfin isle, — 
Your charm endures forever, and the years 
Reveal fresh beauty to my musing gaze ! 
Where'er I go I hold you in my heart 
And love to dream of magic summer hours 
Where curves the Brandywine below the bridge. 




C\ LORDLY Stream, whose sparkling waters sweep 
By cloven cliffs and mountains forest-stolcd, 
Or spread in silent leagues where mists of gold 
Hang o'er soft islands in the silver deep ; 
Fair as some phantom river seen in sleep 
Art thou, to whom the Indians of old 
Gave thy melodious name, in days when rolled 
Primeval thunders round thy headlands steep. 

Of thee the young and ardent Coleridge dreamed 
As loveliest of the waters of the west ; 

To Stevenson thy beauty peerless seemed ; — 
But thine own Mifflin, to whose loving eye 
Thy multitudinous isles "in clusters lie 

As beautiful as clouds," — he knows thee best. 



N these high breezy fields the little rill 

Dances and sings, a joyous infant stream, 
Nor knows what amplitude it will attain, 
Far down the land, of majesty and dream. 



|LD forms forgotten of the world of men 

Still haunt the common ways of life for me ; 
Lone vales and dreaming rivers to my ken 

Are fraught with glamour and with mystery. 
I hear strange harmonies among the hills, 
I drink the fragrance of forgotten things ; 
In whispering forests still the dryad sings, 
And strange emotion all my being thrills. 

Along green uplands in the flush of dawn 
I catch a glimpse of Dian's girls star- white, 

A phantom troop that speed by copse and lawn 
And fade beyond the wheat field on the height. 


spirit of September 

I hear faint music in the shadowy wood 

When winds are stirring in the chestnut leaves, 
An elfin strain ; — so plaintively it grieves, 

I would not miss its pathos if I could ! 

And I have seen by solitary meads 

In violet days when April yet was young, 

The rueful Pan among the river reeds, 
And heard his wistful elegies outflung. 

And through the hush of soft September hours, 
When corn was yellow 'neath the harvest moon, 
Methought Sylvanus piped an eerie tune 

As low he lurked amid the fading flowers. 

As some lone child that wanders far from home. 
Sees all its sweetness through his tender tears. 

So phantoms fair of Hellas and old Rome 
Arise for me from out the ancient years. 

The paths of life to others sad may seem, — 
They cannot but be glorified for me 
Who find them fraught with myth and mystery 

And all enchantments of the world of dream. 


r\ SPIRIT of September, I have seen 

Thy wandering footsteps by the lonely rill 
That winds and murmurs under willows green 

Below yon high-browed hill ; 
And I have followed thee through orchards olden 

And watched thy wistful face in silence pass 
Where mellow apples round and ripe and golden 

Lie thickly in the grass ; — 

Lie in the grass where once in pleasant drowse 
Methought I saw thee in the dove-cote's shade 

Weaving a wreath of asters for thy brows 
In sweet and fragrant braid. 

And by the woodland edge, 'mid moss and myrtle, 


Spirit of September 

When thou wert dancing o'er the faery green, 
With heaps of fern and flowers in thy kirtle. 
Thee, Spirit, have I not seen? 

Have I not seen thee in the azure morn 

Glide noiseless as a phantom summer cloud 
Where waved the tassels of the yellow corn 

And vagrant crows called loud ; 
Or watched thee in the twilight pale and hazy 

With drooping head roam far adown the stream 
Whose wandering waters languorous and lazy 

Fill our soft vale with dream? — 

Fill it with dream and mystery and charm 

In rosy dawns and noons and slumbrous eves, 
Where smile the acres of the ancient farm 

With stacks and golden sheaves, 
With rustic wealth of timothy and clover. 

And meadows where the soft-eyed heifers graze. 
And fields of thick-sown millet toppling over. 

And slopes of tasseled maize ; — 

Of tasselled maize and fields where thistle-seeds 

Float on light winds above the luscious sod, 
WHiere pungent mint and ragweed fill the meads. 

And wild-heart goldenrod; 
And gardens lovelier for thy passing there, — 

So stately seem the silken hollyhocks, 
So sumptuous the lingering roses fair, 

So deeply bright the phlox; — 

So bright the phlox and every stately flower 

The season brings ; — but, ah, to think how soon 
Thou'lt fade away as hour by golden hour 

Rolls on toward Autumn's noon ! 
Too soon thou'lt fade, O Spirit of September, 

As fade the walnut's and the willow's leaves ; 
But thy deep charm, O how I shall remember 

When Winter sighs and grieves ! 


At Cedarcroft 


T TPON his noble books I've loved to muse 

Since those white days in Oxford long ago 
I heard his gracious words and saw him wrapt 
In pensive reverie pacing to and fro. 


The Home of Bayard Taylor 

{To J. M.) 

A HAUNT of old repose and peacefulness 

Is this red mansion with its dreamy lawns, 
Its shadowy evergreens and druid oaks, 
Its orchards and its deep and silent woods. 
Would you were here this soft September day 
To share with me in this enchanted scene, — 
You to whom Taylor's memoi'y is dear, — 
To sit beneath these boAvering apple trees 
Whose ruddy fruit shines thickh" in the grass. 
And watch the phantom islands of the air 
Drift high above ; to hear the sleepy songs 
Of locusts in the leafy solitudes 
And lonely birds along the woodland edge ; 
And see the butterflies in airy throng 
Hover, and veer, and flit on fairy wings 
Among the phlox and musk}' marigolds. 

Peace reigneth here, and faint and far away 
Seems all the noisy clamor of the world. 
Peace reigneth here among these sunny glades 
And under these dear ancient evergreens. 
Cedar and fir and yew and spicy box ; — 
Peace, drowsed with early autumn fragrances 
Of mellowing pears and plums and ripening corn 
And breath of M'ild grapes in the woodland bowers ; — 
Peace, doubly sweet because once dear to him 
Who built this homestead in the bygone years, 


IVith Lloyd Mifflin s Sonnets 

Cherished these lawns and noble forest trees 

And reared yon tower, from whose commanding height 

Looking across the land his boyhood loved, — 

These blissful landscapes of old Chester County, — 

He gazed o'er pastoral slopes and sylvan dells, 

O'er singing rills, o'er billowy fields of wheat 

And balmy orchards, to the misty edge 

Of these green townships in the Kennett hills. 

Would you were here with me, old friend, to read 

Our Poet's page beneath his own great trees 

And in his own library's deep repose ! 

All day I've dwelt with joy on his rich verse. 

From those clear early songs whose music drew 

Sweetness from Shelley's wondrous harmonies. 

To those full organ-tones of his ripe years, 

August and stately, such as men might chant 

On victor fields or in cathedral aisles. 

And over all his flood of ardent song 

And high-wrought sentiment and starry truth 

There breathes the peace of these first autumn days, 

Touching with golden mists his beauteous lines. 

And these Arcadian bowers of Cedarcroft 

With tenderest pathos and with pensive charm. 


OVIXG the shores of my ancestral stream 

Beneath old solitary willow trees. 
Or musing in still gardens where the bees 
Drone all day long, and yellow roses gleam, 
And all the sleepy summer world doth seem 
In golden revery wrapt ; or at large ease 
Wandering among the billowy clover seas, — 

1 read his Sonnets, lost in pensive dream. 

O then a spirit-music lulls the ear 

And sets the drowsy afternoon a-thrill ; 

And o'er that dear home-stream and ancient farm, 


The Gifts of God 

Across the languorous garden-blooms, I hear, — • 
Blown as from flutes on some green Mantuan hill,- 
Virgilian pathos and Virgilian charm ! 


&«nnip I|nurp0, 
g>ttiprt alb? iFlouirra, — 
5il|at>r pnbrarpa 

(JIirBp, tlipap ar^ mytiP: 
(0 makf tljrm \\}^m\ 


I SAW a woman pale with care 

Beside the way; 
Wistful of face she wandered there 
This autumn day. 

Her thin hands held blue asters blent 
With goldenrod. 
And so I knew that she had spent 
An hour with God 

Among the fields ; that she had come 
With weary feet 

Fleeing her poor and narrow home 
To walk the sweet 

Uncrowded, pure, clean country ways. 
And for an hour 

Find respite from unresting days. 
With bird and flower. 

Alas ! how many souls like thine, 
Unhappy thralls, 


The Gifts of God 

Do poverty and need confine 
In city walls ! 

Ah, not for them night's mystery 
And odorous dark, 
Nor the enchanted piping free 
Of dawn's first lark ; 

For them no image deep and soft 
In tranquil stream. 
Of great cloud-islands far aloft 
That drift and dream. 

The chiming frog, the wood-thrush sweet. 
The sad rain-crow. 
The harvest songs among the wheat. 
They may not know. 

They may not look day after day 
On falling leaf. 

As pensive Autumn pines awa}' 
In golden grief. 

Nay, these poor souls all closely pent 

'Mid dust and heat 

Of dark and grimy tenement 

And sordid street. 

Must count one day 'mid orchard slopes 
And by calm streams 
Fulfilment of their fondest hopes 
And cherished dreams. 

But we who share each day and hour 
These gifts of God — 
River and wood and cloud and flower 
And emerald sod — 

Do we by reverence aright 
Make these our own? 


Farewell to the Farm 

Or, CHri'lcss, sliiil, \\w\\\ from our si^ht 
Willi licurLs of stone? 


\I0 souiul is lu'urd ; ^ri-cii Nrwliii's fii'lds arc still; 
No inoro >vo hrar llu> wood dove's pensive cry; 
Without »i twitter now the swallows lly. 

Silent the dreanjy woods above the mill; 

Silent the drowsy nir of Shnnherville ; 

Silent I he sii;hls that meet llu' nuisin^ eye. 
One lonely hu/./.ard elinihint;' the elear sky 

And ^reat eloud shadows moving- up I he hill. 

No sound is heard: Ihc slerpy Brandy wine 
Scarce whispers as it la|)s its la/.y reeds 

Or drifts where yon lale-lini;erin^' daisies shine. 
'I'he air is spiced with smoke of burning' weeds, 

And o'er the fields where feetl the peaceful kino 
Slow sail the thistle's filmy silver seeds. 


I SAID fart'well unto our pi-nsivo Str»>ani, 

And I he old farmstead wrapl in aulunui's dream; 

l''art\vi'II unto Ihc vil!ai;i> and I he mill 

And dark mill iMe(> llml winds below llu> hill; 

l*'arewell unto Ihi' callle feediiii;- slow 
WhiM'c hoarv willows stand in silent row; 

l''ar»\vcll to kindly neij;hbors, and farfwi'll 
To thirst' old fields 1 lon<>; have lovt-d so well; 

Farewi'll, lach hauni amonu^ lh(>se hillsitles dear, - 
God ffrunt I come to vou another v«'ar! 


fn Memory of IVhittier 

Dedicated to 


AWHILE Whittier lived among us on this earth 

A saintl}' man walked our familiar ways, 
And, like the saints of olden time, prevailed 
By force of simple goodness; he was one 
Who followed righteousness unwaveringly, 
Who fought the good fight in his manly prime, 
Who dreamed his dreams, and in high melodies 
Chanted his dreams and poured forth his great soul. 

How often in reflective hours I love 

To ])onder on his precious verse, and muse 

On his victorious and nohle life ! 

Where shall we look to find a poet brother 

liike him in fine simplicity, so meek. 

So all unworldly, save among the hills 

And dreaming lakes of the old mother-land, — 

Who but great Wordsworth heard the spirit's voice 

And sang its message in like melodies 

As WHiittier? Who but our Quaker seer 

Knew Nature's inmost heart as Wordsworth knew? — 

In Memory of W^ hit tier 

A lover of the meadows and the woods. 

And mountains, and of all that we behold 

From this green earth . . . well pleased to recognize 

In nature and the language of the sense. 

The anchor of his purest thoughts, the nurse 

The guide, the guardian of his heart, and soul 

Of all his moral being. 

Think not the poet, calm in outward mien, 
Is not profoundly moved by loveliness ; 
Beauty and goodness feed "that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude" ; and oft 
In common things unseen by thoughtless men. 
In quiet stream or cloud or wayside flower, 
The poet finds beatitude and joy. 
So was it with our tranquil Quaker bard, — 
He loved all beauty on this lovely earth. 
Cherished and mused on it, till it became 
Part of his dreamful mind, and so in time 
Was made the theme of his delightful song. 

He loved the laughing eyes of children dear. 

The charm of kind and winsome womanhood 

Where beauty is the mark of heavenly grace. 

The fine benignity of gray old men 

Crowned with deep peacefulness ; he loved the stars. 

The tranquil clouds that swim the heavenly seas. 

The wandering moon, and sunset's smouldering fires. 

Melodious brooks he loved, and rivers blue. 

And lordly lakes that shimmer 'neath the sun; 

And through it all he saw God manifest, 

Speaking through nature's myriad loveliness. 

And with his worship of the living God 

As manifest in cloud and stream and flower 

And songs of joyous birds, he blent his love 

Of peaceful hours of waiting on the Lord 

In quiet meeting-hour ; — O deeply wise. 

To find the Father in the holy haunts 


In Memory of Whit tier 

Of ancient sea and wood, and equally 

Beneath the roof in the still house of prayer ! — 

Dream not, O friend, because I seek 

This quiet shelter tzvice a week, 

I better deem its pine-laid floor 

Than breezy hill or sea-sung shore; 

Invisible and silent stands 

The temple never made xvith hands. 

Unheard the voices still and small 

Of its unseen confessional. 

He needs no special place of prayer 

Whose hearing ear is everywhere. 

And then the poet tells the equal joy 
Of silent worship with his fellow-men 
Upon the ancient benches 'mid the calm, — 

And so I find it well to come 

For deeper rest to this still room. 

For here the habit of the soul 

Feels less the outer world's control; 

And from the silence multiplied 

By these still forms on either side 

The world that time and sense have known 

Falls off and leaves us God alone. 

^OR less I love our Poet when he sings 

The homely, quaint old-fashioned country life, 
The golden summers when he roved and dreamed 
A happy barefoot boy ; the wholesome fare, 
The rustic labors. Whittier tells of these 
In new-world eclogues sweet as Virgil's own, 
Fragrant with wood grapes, hay fields, wild strawberries, 
With forest flowers and laden orchard boughs. 
Musical with the murmur of wild bees. 
With lowing cattle and with bubbling springs. 
And songs of robins and of orioles. 


In Memory of W^hittier 

O for boyhood's painless play. 
Sleep that rvakes in laughing day. 
Health that mocks the doctor's rules. 
Knowledge never learned of schools. 
Let the million-dollared ride! 
Barefoot, trudging at his side. 
Thou hast more than he can buy 
In the reach of ear and, eye, — 
Outward sunshine, inward joy: 
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! 

And who loves not the dear familiar lines 
That tell of winter's brisk and wholesome tasks 
And cheery fireside joys; and, breathed o'er all, 
The loving spirit of sacred memories. 
The mystery of God's unfading peace ! 

Shut in from all the world without 
We sat the clean-winged hearth about. 
Content to let the north-wind roar 
In baffled rage at pane and door. 

Ah, brother! only I and thou 

Are left of all that circle now, — 

The dear home faces whereupon 

That fitful firelight paled and shone. 

Henceforward, listen as we will. 

The voices of that hearth are still; 

Look where we may, the wide earth o'er. 

Those lighted faces smile no more. 

Yet Love will dream, and Faith zvill trust. 

That somehow, somezehere, meet we must. 

Alas for him who never sees 

The stars shine through his cypress-trees! 

Who hath not learned, in hours of faith. 

The truth to flesh and sense unknown. 
That Life is ever lord of Death, 

And Love can never lose it own! 


In Memory of IV hit tier 


^7 HOSE lighted faces smile no more, — ah me, 

Who hath not felt the tender sad regret 
That surges to the heart amid the scenes 
And haunts of childhood ! Whittier speaks our love, 
Deep and enduring, for the ancient farms 
And tranquil homesteads dear to memory, 
Yet touched with endless pathos through the years 
Since now our loved ones greet us there no more 
At garden gate or by the ruddy hearth. 

Such pathos clings about that ancient house 

'Mid the green meadows and the orchard slopes 

Where Whittier's boyhood passed, — an old-time house 

With centuried traditions, now bereft 

And silent since the Poet comes no more, — 

Silent, yet eloquent of happy years. 

Of rustic labor and of kindly deeds 

And family love and sweet content and peace. 

Here foams the little brook, dear to his heart, 
Down through the idyllic grove and 'mid the fields 
Below the orchard on the breezy hill. 
Singing as joyously now as of yore. 

Laughed the brook for my delight 
Through the day and through the night. 
Whispering at the garden wall. 
Talked with me from fall to fall; 
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond. 
Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 
Mine, on bending orchard trees. 
Apples of Hesperides! 

Here stands the long low heavy-timbered barn 
Across the road, with fragrant granary 
And deep-set mows and antique shop and forge, — 
Lonely and silent now, where once the boy 


In Memory of Whittier 

Took part in all the wholesome countr^'^ tasks 
Among the friendly, patient animals, — 

Littered the stalls, and from the mows 
Raked dozen the herd's-grass for the cows: 
Heard the horse whinnying for his corn; 
And, sharply clashing horn on horn. 
Impatient down the stanchion rows 
The cattle shake their walnut bows. 

Not far away the Poet's well-loved haunt, 
Great Hill, stands up against the breezy sky. 
From whose high crest are many cities seen, 
Hamlets and busy towns, and silver lakes 
'Mid forests dark; and in the dream}'^ west 
Monadnock towering heavenward; far to south 
That old romantic mountain grand and lone, 
Wachusett ; with the billowy Deerfield range 
Dim on the northern line; while, bright with sails, 
Grey ocean heaves and slumbers peacefully 
Or rolls and flashes in the morning sun 

There lately as I roved 
By that old house and down that little stream 
And o'er those breezy hills, how poignantly 
I felt the solemn beauty of it all ! 
Each spot seemed hallowed by the tender thought 
Of Whittier's youthful years ; each woodland haunt, 
Each fair New England landscape, each old room 
Of that dear memoried house, seemed eloquent 
Of him who worked and pondered here, who fed 
His dreams amid these quiet groves and fields 
And nourished his great soul among these hills. 

Dear home-land haunts, the simple Quaker bard 
Loved you beyond all fancied scenes afar ; 
And if at times he mused with mild regret 
On Syrian lands, on Venice, or the Alps, 


In Memory of Whit tier 

Whose charms he might beliold in dreams alone 

And wistful thought, — yet loyally he clung 

To his dear home-land hills, meekly content 

To bide through life near those ancestral scenes, — 

Scenes that sufficed his warm home-loving heart. 

Home of my heart! to me more fair 

Than gay Versailles or Windsor's halls. 

The painted, shingly town-house where 
The freeman's vote for Freedom falls! 

And sweet homes nestle in these dales. 

And perch along these wooded swells; 
And, blest beyond Arcadian vales. 

They hear the sound of Sabbath bells! 
Here dwells no perfect man sublime. 
Nor woman winged before her time. 
But with the faults and follies of the race. 
Old home-bred virtues hold their not unhonored place. 


T LOVE his Songs of Labor, sweet with sounds 

Of wholesome toil and rustic fellowship, 
Fragrant of forests and of ocean winds. 
He sings the golden harvests of the corn 
In mild October, of old kitchen hearths 
And rosy country girls, of long stone barns 
And creaking harvest-wagons, — all the scenes 
Of quaint old-fashioned merry husking-bees. 

Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard! 

Heap high the golden corn! 
No richer gift has Autumn poured 

From out her lavish horn! 

Let other lands, exidting, glean 

The apple from the pine. 
The orange from its glossy green. 

The cluster from the vine; 


In Memory of JV hit tier 

But let the good old crop adorn 

The hills our fathers trod; 
Still let us, for his golden corn. 

Send up our thanks to God! 

The building of the stately ships he sings, 

Where sturdy wrights and smiths, from centuried oak 

And ringing iron, form with cheery zeal 

The mighty barks that sail the ocean's fields. 

High destiny the poet wishes her, 

Each lordly vessel — freight of golden grain 

And fruits and balmy spice, — no cargoes base 

Of groaning slaves or draughts that dull the soul. 

God bless her! wheresoever the breeze 

Her snowy wings shall fan. 
Aside the frozen Hebrides, 

Or sultry Hindostan! 

Where'er, in mart or on the main. 

With peace fid flag unfurled. 
She helps to wind the silken chain 

Of commerce round the xvorld! 

So with the drovers and the fisher-folk 
And men who fell great trees on mountain-slopes, — 
His kindly heart with cheery comradeship 
Warms toward them all ; and toil till now unsung 
Finds glory in his lays, and humble men 
Grow noble in his verse sincere and strong. 
How like his well-loved Burns does Whittier seem 
In these his poems of democracy ! 

And who loves not his Ballads, epics true 
Though brief and simple, of heroic deeds. 
Of sacrifice upon the stormy seas 
And great devotions in life's daily fields ! 
Happy the child who nourishes his dreams 
And builds his pure ideals from these tales ! 


In Memory of Whittier 

And how for us old memory wakes and thrills 
O'er Barbara Frietchie's splendid loyalty, — 
Or hears once more on India's far fields 
The blithe and tender pipes of Lucknow blow, — 
Or looks on sweet Maud Muller raking hay 
In that unfading pensive pastoral scene, — • 
Or sees soft Pity and Love like angels shine 
Above sad Buena Vista's battle-field ! 

The wonder and the glory of the sea 

Breathe in these Ballads ; — hundred-harbored Maine, 

The Rocks of Rivermouth, the steady chime 

Of sunset waves around fair Appledore, — 

They live for us as vividly to-day 

As when they first enthralled us in his song. 

O I could listen hour on golden hour 

To Whittier's moving and melodious lays ! 

Beside the ruddy hearth on winter nights 

They gain a fresh impressiveness, they stir 

Kindly affection and soft sympathy, 

And leave us nobler for their lessons pure. 


A^7E who are native to these dreamy hills 

And valleys green of Penn's old Commonwealth,- 
These old-time Quaker shires that Whittier loved, 
Chester, and Bucks, and Delaware, — must prize 
"The Pennsylvania Pilgrim," chief among 
Our poet's ballads ; 'tis a heart-felt tale, 
And warm with Whittier's sweetest kindliness 
And Quaker sympathy; he wrote no verse 
More fragrant of the dear old Faith we hold. 
More beautiful with pictures of the peace 
And fruitful silence of the Meeting hour, — 

Fair First-Day mornings, steeped in summer calm. 
Warm, tender, restful, sweet with woodland halm. 
Came to him, like some mother-hallowed psalm. 


In Memory of Whit tier 

Lowly before the Unseen Presence knelt 
Each waiting heart, till haply some one felt 
On his moved lips the seal of silence melt. 

Oh, without spoken words, low breathing stole 
Of a diviner life from soul to soul. 
Baptizing in one tender thought the whole. 

And, noblest strains of all, he sang his faith 

In the Divine in man u})on this earth — 

Imnianuel, God in each human heart. 

The croAvning glory of his muse are they. 

These })aeans and these hymns ; they have the fire 

And grandeur of the old })rophetic vein ; 

They flame with inspiration straight from God; 

They shine with heavenly hope and heavenly grace. 

Where shall we find more comfort, greater cheer, 

Than in these hymns and prophecies ! What words 

Apart from Holy Writ can equal quite 

"The Eternal Goodness" in wide charity 

And child-sweet faith in the All-Father's love,? — > 

His most majestic utterance, most informed 

With his heart's deepest faith. I never hear 

Its sad and lovely cadences from lips 

Of earnest worshippers, but that I say — 

Here is a creed for all the tribes of earth! 

Yet, in the maddening maze of things. 

And. tossed by storm and food. 
To one fixed trust my spirit clings; 

I know that God is good! 

The wrong that pains my soul below 

I dare not throne above: 
I know not of His hate, — / knoxv 

His goodness and His love. 

I dimly guess from blessings known 
Of greater out of sight, 


/;/ Memory of IV hit tie?" 

AnJ, with the chastened Psalmist, oxvn 
His judgments, too, arc right. 

I long for household voices gone. 

For vanished smiles I long. 
But God hath led my dear ones on. 

And He can do no wrong. 

I know not what the future hath 

Of marvel or surprise. 
Assured alone that life and death 

His mercy underlies. 

And so beside the Silent Sea 

I wait the muffled oar; 
No harm from Him can come to me 

On ocean or on shore. 

I know not where His islands lift 

Their fronded palms in air; 
I only know I cannot drift 

Beyond His love and care. 


A ND now, what can I say of Whittier's power, — 

Why should he see great visions, and dream dreams, 
And voice them in undying melodies? 
O friends, I know he saw, — and felt, — and sang, — 
Because he ever kept one pure ideal, 
One starry gleam, before him all his da3's. 
He dwelt with Beauty, and he loved her well ; 
With Goodness, and he followed her behest. 
And never any worldliness or pride, 
Baseness or jealousy, had loging-place 
In his clam spirit ; he was not disturbed 
By storms that overwhelm less steadfast souls ; 
But clear of vision and high-heartedly 
He saw Truth shining still, a flaming star 


In Memory of Whittier 

That brightened all his path and made his years, — 
Albeit he had sailed thro' troubled seas, — 
One blessed course of pure tranquillity; 
And once again upon this ancient earth 
A saintly man walked our familiar ways. 

•^ He. ^ ^t. j^ 

»r^ ^ •»? «TP yf! 

Would I had seen our saintly Whittier, 

The noble, gray old Poet, face to face; 

Would he had come to Swarthmore now and then 

In his ripe years, as in old daj^s long past 

He came to these old Pennsylvania hills 

And visited in ancient Quaker homes ! 

Those deep, dark eyes, those firm sweet-smiling lips. 

That gracious aspect of benignity, — 

How they had blest our youth ! O I must grieve 

To think we of the younger Quaker line 

Have never looked upon his kindly face, 

Heard his sweet words of peace and friendliness, 

Or felt his cordial hand-clasp. It had been 

A consecration to remember him. 

The great and simple Friend, the Quaker Seer! 

Straight as a mountain pine. 

With the mountain eagle's eye. 
With the hand-clasp strong, and the unhushed song. 

Was it time for him to die? 

The hills and the valleys knew 

The Poet who kept their tryst. 
To our common life and our daily strife 

He brought the blessing of Christ. 

And we never thought him old. 

Though his locks were white as snow. 

heart of gold, grown suddenly cold. 
It was not time to go!* 

*Elegy on Whittier, by Margaret E. Sangster 


Verses of ^akerism 


Dedicated to 

Joseph S. Waltox 

A kind friend 
A true Friend 

As mountain streams from sudden sources run 

And calmer grow ere yet they blend in one. 

Then deeper flowing and more reverently 

Yield all their treasure to the parent sea; — 

So holy love in kindred hearts awakes 

And swift, from many lands, one channel takes. 

Whose currents blending deep in silence move 

Toward that great ocean of Abiding Love, 

Our common Father's heart, where space and time are not 

And each for each may plead, all selfish ends forgot. 

Edith M. Winder 


T LOVE old Meeting-houses, — how my heart 

Goes out to those dear silent homes of prayer 
Witli all their quietude and rustic charm, 
Their loved associations from old days, 
Their tranquil and pathetic solitude. 
Their hallowed memories! O I could roam 

Old ^luaier Meeting- Houses 

Forever in old Quaker neigliborhoods 
And muse beneath the oaks and sycamores 
That shade those quiet roofs, the evergreens 
That guard the lowly graves, — and meditate 
Upon the kindly hearts that softly sleep 
Beneath the violets and wandering vines 
And mossy turf, the kindly hearts and true 
That in old years gone by were wont to come 
To First-day and to Mid-week Meeting here 
To worship and to pray and find new strength 
For daily duties. Many a tranquil face 
I see in fancy as I ponder here, — 
The blessed mothers with their ej'es of love 
And tenderest sympathy, the fathers kind 
And serious and generous-souled to all, 
And hosts of rosy boys and budding girls — 
The youthful scions of old Quaker stock. 

The great old trees around the Meeting-house, 
Hoar patriarchs of eld, chant low to me 
Their centuried recollections of the sires 
Who tilled the far-spread farms that lie around. 
And matrons who have made, in years long gone, 
These grey farm-houses centers of true peace 
And friendly cheer, in days when son to son 
Succeeded, and the ancient well-loved farms 
Became ancestral lands round which were twined 
What love, what veneration, what deep faith ! 

O mighty oaks and noble sycamores, 

With trunk moss-silvered and with lichened limb, 

Breathe soft to me the storied memories 

And treasured records of the long rich yeaxs 

That blessed the Meeting-house at London Grove 

Gazing across the fertile townships there, — 

A grand old house of grand old memories. 

Tell me of Salem near the river shore 


Old Quaker Meeting-Houses 

Far in south Jersey, with its giant oak, 

Type of its people's age-long strength and charm ; 

Of Lincoln in Virginia's tranquil dales ; 

Of Centre and of genial Rising Sun ; 

Of that old Meeting-house at Wilmington, 

A peaceful island 'mid the city's noise; 

Of little ancient solitary Cain 

Dreaming upon its solitary hill ; 

Of Purchase 'neath its mighty sycamores, 

Where old-time Quaker kindliness prevails ; 

Wyoming and Odessa, quaint old shrines ; 

Poughkeepsie, steadfast, friendly and antique; 

Of Newtown's cheerful, sunny Meeting-house; 

Tell me of Ercildoun so friendly-kind ; 

Of dear Penn Hill, precious in memory ; 

Of Concord high among the peaceful farms, 

"The mother fond whom many hearts revere, 

Since from her fold they Avent to bless the world 

With kindled lights of Peace and hallowed Love" ; 

Of Warminster among the maple shades ; 

Of Gwynedd in the old Welsh settlement. 

Heart of a region where old faith still lives. 

And old tradition and old friendliness ; 

Of Warrington among the ancient woods. 

Where Friends from Ireland worshipped in old days ; 

And Langhorne in its friendly neighborhood. 

Tell me, great trees that shade the quiet roofs 

And guard the lowly graves among the grass, 

Tell me of all the simple country faith 

And grace and kindliness that long have blest 

The old-time Quaker colonies afar — 

In fertile Indiana's sunny glades, 

In Loudon's meadows warm and dreamy-fair, 

In old Long Island and in Canada, 

And every region where our Faith endures. 

Love links us all across the sundering leagues, 


Old ^luaker Meeting-Houses 

Love makes us brothers in our cherished creed 
In many an ancient Quaker neighborhood, 
In man}' a well-loved dear old Meeting-house 
Far up and down the land, where'er we come 
And gather in the peaceful First-day morns, 
Waiting in quietude upon the Lord, 
Waiting and praying, — "Children of the Light." 



LOVE old Meeting-houses ; — O what charm, 
What tender benediction and what peace 
Dwell in the very sunlight streaming doAvn 
Across their quiet aisles ! An ancient calm 
And phantom fragrance fill the sun-lit air 
That shimmers from the softly-humming stove 
In winter days and gives a dreamy grace 
And radiance to the far-off snowy hills 
And old homesteads and sleepy villages 
And lonely woods seen through the little panes. 
And in the golden summer First-day morns 
How sweet the drowsy air that softly flows 
Through open windows from the harvest fields 
And garden walks, scenting the quiet house 
With fragrance faint of honeysuckle vines 
And pungent clover-tops and spicy pinks ! 

The winter sunlight and the flower-sweet air 

Of golden summer Sabbaths add a grace, 

An unsuspected solemn spiritual charm. 

To all the blessed meditations there 

And tranquil thoughts ; they are the visible form. 

Harmonious with inward righteousness. 

That heighten, strengthen, make it fair to all. 

O can there be perfection of the soul 

If God's sweet sunshine smiling down from heaven. 

Or birds and flowers beneath the tranquil blue. 

Meet no response? I cannot think it so. 


Old ^luaker Meeting-Houses 

How poor of spirit he whose heart warms not 
O'er the calm beauty and benignity 
That musical silence and sweet country peace 
And balmy odors lend to those still hours 
In old-time Meeting-houses ! 

Well I know 
What dignity breathes from the lofty space 
And amplitude of hospitality 
In these old-fashioned simple Quaker shrines ! 
Most friendly seems the long, high, sturdy roof, 
Most friendly the all-welcoming old walls. 
Seen through the sheltering trees across the hills, 
As driving cheerily the families come 
To this sequestered sanctuary dear, 
Forgetful of the week's routine and trials, 
To find fresh consolation and fi'esh peace. 
— I love those spacious and all-welcoming walls 
Built for whole countrysides to gather there ; 
They seem the very soul and warm dear heart 
Of all the Quaker region, — every hearth 
And chimney-nook and cosy family room 
In all the old farm-houses round about 
Find here their essence and their sum of warmth 
And human consecration kind and true, — 
So strongly knit is the old Meeting-house 
With every neighborly and friendly tie. 

So seems the Meeting sober and benign 
Of calm Old Kennett by the country road, 
Ancient and storied, — from the days of Penn 
To ours, a home of deepest Quaker peace. 
So seems the Meeting at dear Nottingham, 
In Calvert's province founded long ago. 
Child of New Garden in Penn's ancient shire. 
So peaceful, kindly, and so well-beloved ; 
Such, old, old Flushing, simple, venerable, 
Sad with great memories of the bygone years ; 


Old Quaker Meeting-Houses 

Such, ivied Abington's serene old house, — 

How spacious and all-welcoming its walls. 

How steeped in antique calm the air that flows 

Around that ample, cheery Quaker shrine ! 

What sweet remembrance wreathes round every name, 

What reverence, what tenderness, what love ! 

And like to these and equally endeared 

The Meetings with melodious Indian names. 

Or titles drawn from forms of stream and field, 

Orchard and lawn and hill and shadowy wood : — 

Old Octoraro's simple woodland fane, 

Manhassett, Saratoga, Manasquan 

Where good Job Scott attended meeting once, 

That Friend so "deep in heavenly mysteries"; 

Oswego, quaint Hockessin's little shrine. 

Lone Catawissa's olden log-built house, 

Rancocas with its walls of antique brick, 

Miami, Chappaqua, Greenfield, Short Creek, 

Mansfield and Little Falls and Waterford, 

Peach Pond with all its quaint simplicity. 

And Little Creek so ancient and serene ; 

Mount Holly by our sainted Woolman's home, 

Coldstream, Westfield, and Plumstead quaint and old ; 

Fairhill, in whose green shade was laid to rest 

Lucretia Mott ; Whitewater, Haverf ord. 

Old Springfield, Valley, Ridge, and Mullica Hill, 

Pleasant Fawne Grove, and White Plains well-beloved. 

Deer Creek, West Grove the olden, dear Woodlawn, 

Friendly Pennsgrove and dearly-loved Broad Creek, 

And Brooklyn, stronghold of most kindly Friends. 

— Forever could I roam, forever muse 

Around these olden haunts, forever dream 

Upon the dear hearts sleeping silently 

Below the violets and the tangled grass, 

Where weep the rains and sob the murmuring leaves 

And chant the wistful birds at vesper hour. 


Old Quaker Meeting- Houses 

f LOVE old Meeting-houses : — where on earth 

Is more of gracious charm and piety 
And saintly goodness seen than gathers here 
In quiet First-day meetings? Many a child, 
I know, is stirred to life-long righteousness 
By sight and memory of the dignity 
And peaceful spiritual beauty in the forms 
And faces of the venerable sires 
And placid grand-dames in the gallery seats. 
Wrapt round with tranquil, sweet solemnity 
And peace and gentleness, they represent 
The Quaker faith made visible to all. 

*One such there was whose memory is most dear : — 

Friendly of soul was she, and all who came 

Within the sunlight of her kindliness 

Were richer for her friendship and her love. 

We say the saints have gone from earth long since ; 

But she, I think, was saintly, — if to be 

Devoted to high truth, to hear from heaven 

The Voice ineffable, and tell its words 

With pleading power and fervent eloquence 

To us who listened to her ministry, 

To live a blameless life, and shed around 

Sweet peace and friendliness and gracious cheer, — 

If this be saintliness, the gift was hers. 

God sends such souls among us now and then 

To show that heaven is not remote and strange, 

But here about us on this beauteous earth ; 

And never can discouragement or gloom 

Becloud our vision while companioned here 

With friends like her, whose simple kindliness 

And cheering love seem touched with grace divine. 

And many a kindly reverend good old man 
Of equal saintship have I known, now gone 

*Lydia H. Price 


Old ^/aier Meeting- Houses 

Hiilo his lu-uvfuly hoiiH'. One siicli llicrc was* 

\Vli()st> hlaiiiclcss lrHii(|uiI yciirs roacluul nigh five-score 

Before ihey hiid him iti the (|ui('l. earlh 

Ainon^ the liills above the liramlywiiie, 

At litUe, h)nely, well-hived Koinaiisville. 

ITe was a rannei" of the ohieii school, 

A mail of IririKlly heart and whoh'some che(>r. 

Sturdy and steadfast through all trials; and now 

In his old »ige a noble veteran. 

He sat among the elders nnieh revered, 

A 1 rue old fashioned I'^riend ; all ages loved 

His eonverse, for his venerable head 

IJelied his youthful heart, — ho was as fresh 

In svm])alhy as any boy, and drew 

\'ouiig folk and children round him by the charm 

Of cheerfulni'ss unfailing, and his kind 

Warm inleresL in all Ihcir joys and griefs. 

— O when they laid him in I he (juiet earth, 

T Ihoughl, in childish fashion, that no more 

Of kindiMss lived, now this good man was gone! 

Among tlu> ancient graves at Solebury 

We lately laid,- upon a wintry day 

Of weeping clouds and sadly moaning winds 

And sighing trees, — the earthly forn) ol" omt 

Beloved bevond the usual lot of n)en. 

So venerable and bt-nign, so kindly he. 

So cheerful-heart i>(l and so yoiuig of soul, — 

He seemed a (j)uaker of the olden tinie. 

Gentle and steadfast, honorable nnd true, 

(grounded in virtue and integrity, 

y\i\d guided ever by an iiuier light ; 

Yet no stern and unl)ending Puritan ; 

We knew him genial, friendly, meekly wise. 

Childlike^ in his sim]>licity, naive 

»Jol»n Wortli 

tFAlwuiil H. MaRill, President of Swarthmore College 


Old Quaker Meeting- Houses 

And quaintly humorous, — such a man, I think, 
As Horace might have loved, so well he blent 
Sound lore and home-bred sense, contentment sweet 
And fine humanity. Yea, he had learned 
These Quaker virtues at his mother's knee; 
And through the long course of his fruitful life 
Her maxims he remembered ; and in him 
Were human power and grace of soul so fused 
That long his happy memory shall endure 
Engraven in our hearts who loved him well, — • 
The good old man, so venerable and benign. 
So cheerful-hearted and so young of soul. 

— From childhood recollection still I see 
That tenderest and kindliest of men. 
Whose comforting, benign and winning grace. 
His gentle ministry and mild appeal, 
His voicing of his visions and his hopes, 
Must live indelibly in many hearts, — 
Darlington Hoopes ; — he truly seemed to me 
An old-time Quaker of the purest type. 

— And I recall a man of sunny faith 
And charity unbounded, — Cyrus Linton, 
Who left the memory of an honest life 
Of cheery, friendly ways and warm affection. 
With all who knew him ; his the helping hand 
Toward higher manhood; his the love of home 
And all that "home" implies, — a noble Friend 
In every noble trait — And Hannah Plummer, 
From her young days of gentle motherhood 
Unto her ripe old age a source of strength 
And wisest counsel ; — who can e'er forget 
Her liberal spirit? Comfort flowed from her 
With living force, and many a hopeful life 
Has been enriched by her uplifting power. 
Her loving sympathy and friendship firm. 


Old Quaker Meeting- Houses 

— And like a sister unto her in spirit 
Seemed Emily Longstreth, that strong, generous soul, 
Whose hand was ever lent to further good, 
To lift the lowly and to aid the sick; 
Her "gentle life with gentlest closing" told, 
More forcefully than words, her nobleness. 

How high a trait is calm sincerity ! 

A man of simple heart and steadfast faith 

Seems like a tower of strength, no matter what 

His state, or rich or poor ; — such men have lived 

In every Quaker region. One of such 

Was Hiram Blackburn, — honest, faithful, true. 

Whose long, long years were passed among the scenes 

Of childhood's home, and close to his loved Meeting 

And lifelong friends. — And such was William Webb, 

Most gentle and affectionate of heart. 

Of humor quaint, and genial comradeship; 

His kindliness I never can forget, — 

A true, good Friend, a man of noble soul. 

— Sincerity was notable indeed 
Among the traits that marked the character 
Of Lydia Hall; sincerity was hers. 
And simple peace of heart and homely wisdom. 
With youth she had a perfect sympathy, 
And patiently and lovingly she wrought 
In their behalf through all her length of days. 
— Who may compute the influence for good 
Of such a life, who reckon up the sum 
Of all the kindness and benignity, 
The meek and unobtrusive helpfulness. 
The calm rich peace, the charm, the gentle grace ! 

The Friends that I have here portrayed are types 
Of such as every Meeting-house has known ; 
Their names are lettered on the lowly slabs 


Old S^uaker Meeting-Houses 

Bcncatli tlie solemn cypresses and firs, 
Wept o'er by sobbing rains and rose-leaves strewn 
In grieving autumn eves by wandering winds, 
In every Quaker grave-yard, and their fame 
Lives in the loving records of the heart 
Immortall}'. O wondrous power of goodness 
Surpassing every other human gift, — 
Goodness that bringeth heaven down to earth 
And linketh mortal man with angels here! 


T LOVE old Meeting-houses ; — how remote 

From all the world's loud tumult do they seem ! — 
Islands of blissful peace to lull tired souls 
Tossed on the seas of daily circumstance 
And seeking friendly haven after storm ; 
Sequestered bowers sweet with holy balm, 
To shelter and to shield. 'No words may tell 
The pathos of their centtiried peacefulness. 
Tranquil and holy; — here have won/en wept 
Above their loved-ones, strong men here were bowed 
By piteous grief, in those grey ruthless hours 
When in the silent earth they laid to rest 
Their precious dear ones, — while the old house gloomed 
In silent sympathy, and all its trees, 
Its drooping roses and its ancient shrubs 
And clinging ivies sighed in unison 
A requiem for vanished loveliness. 
Or worth and noble charm too early gone. 
Or goodly veterans called to their long home. 
Tiie memories are sacred that enshrine 
Those sweet-sad, tragic, grey and mournful hours ; 
But with each mellowing year that mellows grief 
And reconciles us to the Father's will. 
The dear old Meeting-house grows more endeared 
And gathers sentiment unto itself. 
Deep sentiment and reverence and love. 


Old ^luaker Meeting- Houses 

*One Meeting-house I love to call to mind, 

Endeared by long ancestral ties, where late 

We came, descendants of the sires of old, 

To celebrate in autumn's pensive hours 

The hundredth year of that old Meeting-house. 

In many a loving heart that golden day 

Has now become a blessed memory 

Of dying woodlands flaming mile on mile. 

Of great cloud-fleets above the sleeping hills. 

And old-time peacefulness and love and charm. 

And through it all, one strong calm voice rings clear. 

His voice who seemed that centuried day, when all 

Our thoughts were of the Past, to sound once more 

The clarion call of sturdy Fox or Penn, 

Or Woolman's pleading pathos grave and sweet, — 

With homely simile and pithy phrase 

Stirring our youth to enter once again 

The lists where long ago our fathers strove 

For truth and faith and freedom of the soul. 

In truth he seemed of that pure brotherhood 

Of old-time Quakers, — our Idealist, t 

Our Optimist, — I love to call him so, — 

Blending the vigor of the elder day 

With some fine grace caught from our own rich age, 

And fusing all with warm poetic glow 

As of some memory Wordsworthian. 

It could not other be, since once he roamed 

On Wordsworth's hills and mused the seer's high song 

Amid Westmoreland's sacred solitudes. 

— Such memories of that centuried day are mine, 

That golden day of peacefulness and love. 

Of dying woodlands flaming mile on mile. 

And great cloud-fleets above the sleeping hills. 

*Penn Hill Meeting, Lancaster Co., Pa. 
tjoseph S, Walton 


Old Quaker Meeting- Houses 

I LOVE old Meeting-houses; — 'tis a joy 

To look across the wistful memoried years 
And summon back the faces kind and calm 
Of old-time Friends, who gathered 'neath these roofs 
In bygone days, who loved these ancient seats 
Of fragrant wood, and loved the sheltering trees 
And tender violets among the grass 
As still we love. They long have gone from earth, 
Dear, venerable, cheery old-time Friends, — 
The peace of God upon each kindly face, — 
But in the heart their recollection lives, 
Their tender loving-kindness still survives, 
To sweeten and console; their voices speak 
Immortally across the vanished years, 
Immortally in sacred memory; 
And, hallowed by death's consecrating touch. 
Their messages bring solace to the soul 
More deep, I must believe, than living words. 

O friends, I would that we might cherish well 

Their sure and simple faith, their maxims quaint, 

Their piety, their saintly innocence. 

Their creed untroubled by the doubts that vex 

Our restless age, the questionings that rob 

Our hearts of their just dues of peace and joy. 

We call them "old-time Friends," and such they were,- 

It is the noblest title we can give. 

For in the mellow retrospect of years 

The}^ seem to move in monumental peace. 

And, like old portraits, keep a lasting charm, 

A type unchanging, since mortality 

Has been put off, and but the soul remains. 

Shining through kindly e3'es and wistful smiles 

In old daguerreotypes cherished so well. 

With tender memoried faces such as these 
We people the old benches where to-day 


Old ^luaker Meetmg- Houses 

We sit with living friends, and musingly 

Find in tlie well-loved faces round us here 

Echoes and hints and dim resemblances 

Inherited from those of yore, that make 

The line continuous, the tides from soul 

To soul unbroken in their mystic flow. 

— O Power ineffable, thus to maintain 

The spirit's kinship through the dateless years, 

Preserving the imperishable type. 

And linking with us in our mortal years 

The sainted and the loved of long ago! 


T LOVE old Meeting-houses ; — simple shrines 

That hold the history of our noble faith, 
Strong arks that down the rivers of old, time 
Have home the symbols of our precious Past. 
Ah me, their very names are wondrous dear ! — 
Kindly ancestral English names beloved. 
All redolent of English honesty 

And charm and worth, — brought hither by our sires 
To keep them minded of their English homes 
Among the moorlands or by tranquil streams, 
Their "leighs" and "tons," their "moors" and "byes" and 

"Boroughs" and "villes," and "chestcrs," "streets" and 

Mute history lies enshrined in every name, — 
Yardley and Yarmouth, Bristol, Burlington, 
Oxford and Middletown and Little Britain, 
Old Quaker Street and kindly Mickleton, 
Warm-hearted Millville, lonely Marlborough, 
Old Chester, hard by Penn's first landing-place 
In this new world; Medford and Lambertville, 
And drowsy Stanton 'mid the drowsy fields. 
Old Horsham dreaming in the hickories' shade, 
Easton where Fox the Founder long ago 


Old ^laker Meeting- Houses 

Preached to a "heavenly meeting" gathered there, 

Bloonifield and Chesterfield and Fallsington, 

Uxbridge and Cain and tranquil B3'berry, 

Old Darby, Mendon, peaceful Providence; 

Wrightstown, a stately and a storied house 

Whose members lived in friendly harmony 

With the Indians of yore; and Plainfield old, 

Peaceful with memories of a noble past ; 

And old, old Shrewsbury where Fox once held 

"A precious meeting," quiet Fallowfield, 

Springboro, Homeville with its kindly name, 

Makefield of gentlest memory, lone Stroudsburg 

Among the mountains, stately Woodbury, 

Doylestown so rich in friendliness, Granville, 

Old-fashioned Crosswicks, Frankford, genial Bart, 

W^est Chester in the kindly dear old town ; 

And little York, most like the small and quaint 

Grey Meeting-house in Furness' grey fields 

By centuried Swarthmore Hall, where Margaret Fell 

Through wondrous years kept warm the friendly hearth. 

Swarthmore ! — Ah how my dreaming fancy wakes 

At that name loved by Friends around the world ; 

Musing I wander from that ancient Hall 

To many a Meeting-house in England's shires 

Or in green lovely Ireland. Well I know 

What kindliness, what old-world charm, abide 

At Henley by slow Thames, at Huddersfield, 

At Kendal and at Keswick in the vales 

That Wordsworth loved, at AckAvorth long held dear. 

At Oxford and at Morland and at Lynn, 

At brooding wave-washed Saltburn-by-the-Sea, 

At lonely-hearted Little Eccleston, 

At Cartmel nigh to those romantic fells 

Where great Helvellyn's foot-hills face the sea. 

At Walton-on-the-Naze so quaintly named. 

At Street in Somerset's delightful fields, 


Old ^luaker Meeting-Houses 

At Chipping Norton 'mid the Oxford hills ; 
And Little Jordans, that most hallowed spot, 
Where loved and saintly Penn was laid to rest 
Beside the loved and saintly Peningtons. 

In these and kindred fanes of our old faith 

His very spirit breathes who up and down 

The island bore the Light, — great Fox, who preached 

God's everlasting truth and word of life. 

Come to the Light! he cried; wait in the Light, 

That you may grow up in the very Life 

That gave the Scriptures. O how mightily 

Did he beseech! — Dwell, brethren, in that Life 

That leadeth to dominion over evil. 

Most tenderly, most grandly he besought: 

Witness the Seed, witness the Christ within; 

Heirs of the promise shall you thus becom.e! 

In Ireland well I know what kindliness 

And peaceful charm abide, now as of old, 

At Limerick by Shannon's lordly stream, 

At Ballinderry and at Bally tore, 

At kindlj'^ Carlow, and at dear Clonmel 

In Tipperary's dales, at Waterford, 

At Wicklow and "sweet Cork" and old Tramore; 

And up at Lurgan where my fathers dwelt. 

In Armagh 'mid the emerald Irish fields. 

Beneath blue Irish skies (O heart of mine. 

How dreamest thou of those dear fields and skies !) 

By quiet stream or quiet country town, 

Or in old red-brick courts secluded deep 

In hearts of solemn cities vastly old, 

Stands many an antique Old-World Meeting, still. 

Haunted with memory and mystery 

And shadows of the Early Friends, — they touch me 

With wondrous pathos and heart-moving power; 

I cannot voice the magic and the charm 


Old ^luaker Meeting- Houses 

With which they cry across the wistful years, 
Holy and tender, from the Long Ago ; 
I cannot voice the yearning they awake. 
Those ancient Meetings in the Mother Land ! 
— O do the fragile balmy blossoms strew 
Their lintels and their lowly burial-stones 
With fragrant petal-drift all April long? 
Do warm rains drip like tears on summer nights? 
Does drear November sway their massive oaks 
And moan among their dark and centuried yews? 


T LOVE old Meeting-houses, and could roam 

Forever in old Quaker neighborhoods, 
By peaceful hamlets and high breezy hills 
And dreamy rivers sleeping in the sun. 
— Beneath the noble sycamores and oaks 
That guard those quiet roofs I love to watch 
The Friends arrive and in the shady porch 
Give cheery greetings, and in little groups 
Converse on happenings of the week, or glow 
With kindly tender smiles and wistful words 
O'er "good old days" and memories half-forgot, 
While young folks stray apart, and children seek 
For violets and chase the butterflies. 

Or 'neath the solemn cypresses I roam 
Among the mossy stones, deciphering 
Dim names long weathered by the winter storms 
And April rains, musing upon the folk 
That in old years gone by were wont to come 
To First-day and to Mid-week Meeting here 
To worship and to pray and find new strength 
For daily duties ; — and at length pass in 
With all the gathering groups of genial men 
And gentle women, blithesome rosy lads 
And winsome girls, beneath the lofty roof, 


Old ^luaker Meeting-Houses 

And on the long unpainted fragrant seats 
Slow settle into silence, while the bees 
Drone in the panes and glad birds chirp outside; 
And if 'tis Mid-week Meeting, then from far 
Across the fields come sounds of farming toil, 
Of clinking scythes and plowmen's cheery calls 
And wagons slowly creaking. Then it is, 
As musical silence settles o'er the house. 
That our calm worship seems to sanctify 
Each longing soul, each heart athirst for grace. 

As in the ancient Meeting-house we sit. 

Environed round with friendliness and love. 

Or touched and comforted with eloquence 

And gentle pleading; with the solemn thought 

Of those low graves beneath the murmuring boughs. 

And all they hold of poignant memory, — 

In those most holy hours, does not a Voice 

Unheard by any save the spirit's ear 

Speak to each longing heart ; does not a Presence 

Unseen by any save the spirit's eye 

Touch every brow with balm beneficent ; 

Do not all barriers fade, all outward signs 

Seem merely phantom forms, until our souls 

Flow in resistless tide toward the Divine, 

"Toward that great ocean of Abiding Love," — 

As in the ancient Meeting-house we sit 

Environed round with love and friendliness. 

With gentle, gentle faces sweet and pure. 

With stillness and the peace of musing minds! 

— Such the sure guidance of the Inner Light, 

Such the companionship and blessed strength 

Of the great Love that holds our yearning hearts. 

On many an azure morn of early spring 
When black-birds piped full sweet among the trees, 
Or in the flower-soft Sabbaths of mid-June 
Fragrant with balmy airs, or in the deep 


Old ^laker Meeting- Houses 

Decomber silence of a dim white world, 
Have these inflowings heartened and refreshed 
God's children met in quiet worship here. 
Such memories truly make a sacred shrine 
Of each old Meeting-house, — make it as hol}"^ 
To our affections and our reverence 
As any grey cathedral to our brethren 
Of faiths more ancient far than ours. 

I yield 
To none in s^'mpathy for those high fanes 
And heaven-aspiring minsters of old lands, 
Whose solemn organ-tones and glorious hymns 
And incense streaming up in mists of gold 
So satisfy devout and simple hearts ; 
— We all were of the old Church once, and feel 
Some thrill of old allegiance ; — yet the calm 
Still air of blessedness and holy peace 
In some old Meeting 'mid its bowering trees, 
Its rambling horse-sheds, and low walls that bound 
Its silent "acre" sweet with tender flowers, 
Holdeth for me a pathos beautiful 
And wondrous beyond reach of any words. 

Ye dear old Meeting-houses, thus would one. 
Who long hath loved you deeply, strive to pay 
His tribute to your charm, your ancient peace, 
Your centuried repose, your guardianship 
O'er gracious souls into the twilight gone 
Such long, long years ago; hoping to wake 
In hearts too soon forgetful of the Past, 
Renewed reliance on your blessed power 
To soothe our anxious and unresting time 
With your serene and spiritual grace, 
Your precious sanctity and ancient charm. 
Ye loved and quaint old Meeting-houses all: 


Old ^luaker Meeti?tg- Houses 

Cornwall beneath thy venerable oak; 
Time-honored Plymouth 'mid thy stately trees, 
Hoary of limb and silvered o'er with age; 
Nine Partners, where the blithe and thoughtful lass 
Lucretia Coffin came in school-girl days ; 
Menallen, Upper Dublin, loved Drumore, 
Yet dearer for your kindly Irish names ; 
Solebury's Meeting "sacrosanct with love"; 
And thou, grey shrine of faith and friendliness 
'Neath Gwynedd's antique oaks ; and little Cain 
Sad and deserted on thy lonely hill ; 
Thou, Old Blue River, 'mid they silent graves, 
Brooding in silence on thy memoried past; 
Thou, Pendleton, heart-warm with kindliness ; 
Thou, spacious, tranquil, grand old Meeting-house 
At London Grove; quaint friendly Birmingham, 
Thou storied shrine; thou, ancient well-loved house 
Where meet the kindly folk of Willistown; 
Thou, Buckingham, above thy dreamy fields ; 
And thou, old Meeting-house at Wilmington, 
A peaceful island 'mid the city's noise; 
Old Jericho where sleeps Elias Hicks; 
Historic Uwchlan quaint and picturesque. 
And tranquil Radnor; and ye, Grampian 
And Sterling, with your honest Scottish names ; 
Old Salem with thy monumental oak ; 
Lone Cecil musing 'mid the forest flowers ; 
Thou, Goshen, home of loving-kindnesses ; 
And Macedon Centre, lovable, serene; 
Camden, so peaceful 'mid thy peaceful graves; 
And dear Penn Hill of precious memories ; 
And many another which the yearning heart 
Holds dear for recollected happiness 
In hours of meditation and of dream 
Amid your quietude and rustic charm, 
Your fruitful silence and uplifting calm. 
Your tranquil and pathetic loneliness, 


Old Concord Meeting 

Your dear associations from old days, 
Your sacred and ancestral memories. 
— And jc, old Meetings scattered up and down 
Among old Quaker neighborhoods afar 
In our wide continent ; and yc, old shrines 
In those revered ancestral English shires 
And Irish fields, beyond the rolling seas 
That separate our lands hut not our love. 



I LOVE to ponder the annals of this old house 

Established here on the hills so long ago 
By the prayerful zeal of those far-off Quaker sires. 
I love to read their records ; — what steadfast faith, 
What loving-kindness there, what shining deeds ! 

Their dust has slept in the earth for many a year, 
And the moss and the ivy long have muffled their graves 
With pensive green, — a token and tender sign 
Of the evergreen love we bear those ancient Friends, 
Those hero-hearts of our faith. They were noble and true ; 
They humbly asked for the blessing of God on their work 
When they built their Meeting-house. Their old men saw 
Wondrous visions, their young men dreamed high dreams ; 
Simple and sturdy and godly folk were they. 

True patriarchs of our faith thej'^ seem to me, — 
Pioneer Friends of this new great western world. 
Men and women who came over-sea with Penn. 
They had listened and thrilled to saintly Fox's words 
In English fields ; from Fox they had caught the Light ; 
And now they sought in this lonely western land 
Freedom to worship, freedom to live and thrive 
Unharassed by hostile mobs or zealots blind. 

Honor to them who sought no earthly honor ! 
Their long-familiar names are indelibly dear, 


Old Concord Meeh 


Rich with two hundred ^^ears of mcmoried love, — 

Hannum and Marshall, Thatcher, Gilpin and Cloud ; 

Chandler and Walter, Palmer and Peirce and Brown, 

Mendenhall and Newlin, Brinton, Pyle; 

Yea, patriarchs of the faith they truly were, 

Who minded the Light and sjaread the Light abroad 

From their homes 'mid the fruitful orchards and quiet 

farms, — 
These beautiful fields and hills that we see to-day 
Wrapt in the dreamy summer's bounteous charm. 

The very name of their settlement tells their tale, — 

Concord, — called from the peaceful harmony 

And brotherly love that marked their blessed lives ; 

Concord truly speaks of their tranquil years. 

Their earnest witness against all wordliness. 

Their fervent seeking after the Light of Christ ; 

Concord tells of their love of all mankind. 

Their tender care of the lowly and the oppressed. 

Their helpful hands held out to their Indian brothers, 

Their deep concern for setting the black man free. 

These, and a score of kindred kindly deeds. 

Speak with eloquence far above all words 

Of this ancient Concord Meeting and countryside; 

And not alone of this dear old Meeting-house 

And Quaker countryside, but of those that grew 

Under this Mother-Meeting's watchful love, — 

Birmingham on the Brandywine's emerald hills 

Where old-time kindliness still lives to-day, 

The well-loved meeting at ancient Nottingham, 

And Cain high over the Valley's fertile farms. 

Ah me, how we cling to the outward things we love ! — 
But the heart of our faith is in homes not built by hands, 
And these old shrines, albeit we cherish them well. 
Must crumble and fall with the all-devouring years 
And their tranquil beauty become but a legend dim. 


Old Ken net t Meeting- House 

Yet Concord's dear, dear name must still endure 
When every brick and shrub and lowly grave 
Has been swept away by the ruthless march of time, — 
Concord, home of our far-off English sires, 
Concord the peaceful, the tranquil, the deeply loved. 



'T'HIS lonely house beside the lonely road 

Hath looked on other scenes than ours to-day 
Where round us lie the fields of rustling corn 

And verdant pastures sweet with autumn hay. 
Where all the land is wrapt in peaceful dream. 
And every noise and restless care far, far away doth seem. 

Along this ancient road in days of old 
A varied stream of travelers did pass : — 

The sturdy settlers trudging b}^ their teams, 
Grandsire and pioneer and rosy lass, 

Soldiers returning from the border wars, 

And fishermen who sought the way to Marjdand's distant 

Here jocund hunters journeyed o'er the hills 

With furs and game from out the virgin woods; 

And keen-ej^ed Indians erect and lithe, 
And silent as their forest solitudes. 

How many a wayfarer, how many a load 

Passed by this ancient Meeting-house along this ancient 
road ! 

And twice a week beneath the bowering trees. 
In sober garb, with looks composed and strait, 

A gentle company of people came 

And turned their horses' heads within the gate, 

Dismounted at the block, and staid and slow 

Passed to their seats and settled down in row by silent row, 


Old Kennett Meeting-House 

Silent, — until some strong, clear voice rang out 

And held its listeners in conscious awe, 
Instinct with heaven's visionary fire, 

Or duty's plain inexorable law, — 
A voice whose noble fervor could not be 
The fruit of aught except a life of faithful piety. 

And truly they were faithful, pious folk, 
Those Kennett Quakers of the long ago; 

Read but their names upon these lowly graves, 
Think of the forms whose dust is laid below; 

Muse o'er their memories with grateful tears, 

Those kindly, noble Friends whose names we love through 
all the years ! — ■ 

English and Irish Friends of sterling worth. 
The Webbs, the Harlans who from Erin came, 

The Peirces bred in old-world Somerset, 

The Clouds who brought from Calne their honored name, 

The Sussex Wickershams, the Baileys, too. 

The Millers who from Ireland their ancient vigor drew. 

Their lines are scattered far across the world, 
And this old house deserted seems and lone; 

Neglect and desolation wrap it round. 

And moss and lichen dim each low grave-stone ; 

A sleepy spot beside the sleepy road, — 

Have silence and forgetfulness made here their sure abode.? 

Nay, though the Quaker life of olden time 
No more is seen in weekly gatherings here, — 

In many a heart this ancient house endures, 
To many a heart 'tis still beloved and dear. 

Still cherished as a venerated shrine 

Among the peaceful hills above the peaceful Brandywine. 

Yea, this old house that sleeps through summer suns. 
And dreams through winter nights of star and cold; — 


Old Kennett Meeting-House 

What tales of kindliness and worth were ours 
If all its deepest dreams might once be told 
Of those dear souls who sowed in days long past 
Seeds of an influence that shall its latest stone outlast ! — 

How might it tell of many a tender bride 

Who came forth wedded from this old roof-tree ; 

Of many a gray-haired veteran might it tell 
Laid 'neath yon shades with sad solemnity, — 

Of family joys and sorrows, smiles and tears, 

And pensive memories hallowed through the lost and long- 
dead years. 

Yet tranquil annals oftenest fill its dreams, 
And noble faces from its vanished da3's, — 

The Mendenhalls devoted to good works, 

The Passmores and the Woodwards and the Ways ; 

The Hueys and Harveys here are known to fame ; 

And Lewis, Jacobs, Jenkinson, — Old Kennett loves each 

The history of such a Meeting-house 

Is filled with pathos and with peaceful charm; 

It seems the very heart of this old land, 

This land of ancient wood and tranquil farm, 

Of sunny gardens and of singing streams, — 

This old, old Meeting-house with all its memories and 

The history of such a Meeting-house 

If filled with grandeur, beautiful, sublime. 

Rich with the records of the sainted souls 
Who speak to us from out the olden time. 

O may her spirit still all creeds outlast. 

And calm Old Kennett bless our future as she blessed our 


"^ Haunt of Ancie?tt Peace ^ 


{Read at the Centenary of Willistoivn Meeting-house, 


A HAUNT of ancient peace! — 

AVcll may we call thee so, 
For while the years increase 
And seasons ebb and flow, 
Thou, ancient House, dost seem 
Wrapt in a tranquil dream 

And vision of the days of long ago, — 

A vision softly bright 

With faces that are gone, 
Wherein a saintly light 

And calm serenely shone, — 
Dear faces loved of yore 
Whose peace forevermore 

In benediction round these walls is thrown. 

Soft pastoral echoes thrill 

The heart of yonder woods, 
And misty languors fill 

The leafy solitudes. 
The downward sloping year 
Lies drowsed in golden cheer. 

And resteth in her queenliest of moods. 

In yonder hallowed ground 

The cherished fathers sleep, 
And o'er each lonely mound 

The gentle flowers weep. 
A pensive stillness there 
Breathes through the autumn air 

And fills the scene with silence calm and deep. 

The fathers sleep ; but here 

Their children's children meet; 


"^ Haunt of Ancient Peace" 

Year after quiet year 

They gather seat by seat; 
And many a family name 
Lives on with fragrant fame 

Among the Friends whom here to-day we greet. 

Oft in this peaceful air 

With blessing have been heard 
The purifying prayer, 

The Heaven-guided word ; 
And oft some fervent heart 
Communing here apart, 

As with a sacred leaven hath been stirred. 

Old House, o'er thee hath gone 

A century serene; 
Thy far-off, peaceful dawn 

No living eye hath seen. 
The human stream hath run 
Through many a sire and son 

Since thou didst rise amid the forest green. 

The mild and mellow years 

Have left thee calm and free, 
Through mortal joys and tears 

Enduring tranquilly. 
The infant's dawning breath. 
The darkening hour of death, 

Have been as passing sun and shade to thee. 

Here as in days of old 

Still may the hungry feed, 
Still love the faith we hold, — 

Our sweet and simple creed. 
Here may be given to men 
The zeal of Fox and Penn 

To seek and serve the spirit's inmost need. 


Old Memories^ — New Consecration 

So by this peaceful vale 

While ripening years increase, 
Thy mission shall not fail, 

Thy blessing shall not cease; 
Thy consecrating calm 
Shall fall like holy balm, 

And thou be still "a haunt of ancient peace." 


{Read at the Centenary of Little Britain Meeting, IQOJf.) 

^ ACRED for us this day of memories old, 
Sacred and sweet to gather in this calm 
Serene old meeting-house among the hills 
By silver Conowingo's peaceful stream; 
Sacred and dear this day to meditate 
And muse upon the vanished hundred years. 

Sacred for us are yon low mounds of green 

Where lies the dust of those we loved so well. 

The ancient box-trees and the bright young flowers 

Keep quiet watch; tenderly, fragrantly, 

In holy solitude they watch the graves 

Of those who perished in their 3'outhful dawn. 

And those who sought at last their mother earth 

After long years, long honorable years 

Rich in good deeds and kindliness and love. 

Surely they know, — those spirits heavenly free, — 

They know the hidden things we may not know 

Until we too must sleep beneath the grass 

To wake in worlds undreamed of; theirs to know 

Of life and death and vast eternity. 

All reverently we come, yet happily. 
With quiet joy, to hail the hundred years. 
The hundred golden autumns, radiant springs, 
Summers and drowsy winters that have gone 
Down to the dim and half-forgotten Past 


Old Memories^ — New Consecration 

Since those grave Quakers of that long-lost time 
Founded this fellowship of worship here 
And gave to Little Britain life and name. 

how the heart doth yearn this centuried day 
For those loved forms and faces, those serene 
Old-fashioned Friends of that old-fashioned age! 

1 seem to see them in their quiet homes 
'Mid these old dreamy Susquehanna hills, 
Living their simple lives with simple faith : — 

The sweet-faced mothers here among their flowers. 

Their bee-hives and their bowering apple trees ; 

Home-loving women, skilled in household craft 

And all the ways of hearty countr}^ cheer, 

Making each home its own small happy world, 

And giving to all this countryside its fame 

For comfort, peace and hospitality ; — 

The fathers, sterling-hearted kindly men. 

Rich in plain wisdom, rich in helpful deeds, 

Noble and strong and pure, — no neighborhood 

Had goodlier farmers, truer gentlemen: — 

And, fair as young June roses after rain, 

The children, soft-eyed girls and ruddy boys, 

Making these old hills jocund with their song 

And wholesome fun, and all unconsciously 

Through all the long, long golden 3'ears of youth 

Building foundations sure of character, 

Of usefulness and home-bred honesty. 

O tell me, are the}' perished then and gone. 

Forever gone those simple da^^s of yore? — 

Nay, much survives ; — and never do I come 

To this old well-loved shire of Lancaster 

Sacred and rich in old ancestral ties. 

Here 'mid the Conowingo's dreamy hills. 

But that the dear old-fashioned face of things, — 

The old red houses, locust-shaded lanes. 

Great ample barns and old gnarled cherry trees, 


Erciidoun Meeting 

Soft meadows with their sunny little streams 
That feed the lovely Susquehanna's tides, 
The very bergamot and purple phlox 
And every dear old-fashioned garden flower, — 
Thrills me with wistful charm; and I can hear 
Old voices calling from the misty years, 
Old voices calling from beyond the grave, — 
So faint, so sweet, I cannot choose but grieve. 

Yet wandering among these boyhood haunts 

Where cheery welcomes wait and greetings warm, 

And lingering in familiar garden paths, 

Among dim orchard-boughs and grassy lanes, 

A long-lost world comes back! — The dead still live. 

The sire surviveth in the son ; there breathe 

From the sweet presences of blooming girls 

The traits of m.others' mothers long ago 

Gone to their heavenly homes. The Past lives on 

And gives the present and the future years 

Blessings unnumbered, — holy legacies ! 

So on this centuried day we well may pause 
Beside these lowly graves, and in this calm 
Serene old meeting-house with reverent hearts 
Gather to muse on those dear hundred years; 
To-morrow to go forth with hope renewed. 
With faith fresh-fortified, resolved to make, — 
As those loved ones of yore would have it be, — 
From these old memories and sacred ties, 
New strengthening and consecration new! 



A HUNDRED years these walls have cast 

Their shadows o'er the sod, 
A hundred years this house hath known 
The blessed peace of God. 


Ercildoun Meeting 

O many arc the gentle souls 

Through all the hundred years 
Wlio blest this peaceful house of prayer 

And loved it through their tears. 
And many are the gentle souls 

Through years remote and old 
Who wept above yon grassy graves 

Where sleep the hearts of gold. 

Ah, though in hours of tenderness 

We think with sorrow deep 
Of all the dear and well-beloved 

Wrapt in eternal sleep, — • 
Yet well we know there is no death 

For those who deeply love; 
The limits of this mortal life 

Their spirits soar above. 
Let no old meeting-house like this 

Lament for days of yore, 
While memoried voices call to us 

From out the heavenly shore. 
Let no old meeting-house like this 

Lament for glory gone. 
While children of its sires remain 

To hand the message on. 

Of noble and of kindly souls 

To-day we have no dearth ; 
In every age the Father sends 

His chosen ones to earth. 
In every generation still 

The hand of God is seen, 
His meadows of immortal love 

Are ever fresh and green. 
The lives our fathers lived of yore. 

The fragrance of the past, — 
Each age must add to these a charm 

More gracious than the last. 


At Plymouth Meeting 

And so at this first century mark 

We face the forward slope, 
Our hearts a-thrill with loving faith, 

Our eyes alight with hope. 
Content to know the Father's gifts 

And blessings will not cease. 
Trustful in His abounding love, 

Secured in His great peace. 


I F anywhere is Peace, 'tis here 

Where softly fades the failing year, 
And round this Meeting gray and old 
The great trees drop their leafy gold. 
By this gray wall what joy to stay 
And muse the quiet noon away, — 
So wonderful the day and fair 
Steeped in its pensive misty air, — 
To watch the yellow leaves and slow 
That waver to the ground below. 
And see the insects gleam and pass 
Across the tangles of the grass ; 
To ponder on the slow sweet hours 
That breathe the scent of ripened flowers, 
And pacing 'neath the sycamores 
To hear through 3'onder Meeting doors 
The sound of children's voices sweet 
The texts and tender psalms repeat. 

In holy haunts of silence here 

True men have slept for many a year; 

Dear saintly mothers 'neath this sod 

Were yielded back unto their God; 

And in this soft and drowsy air 

I seem to see the children fair 

For whom were shed what wistful tears 

In bygone and relentless years ! 


Old London Grove Meeting 

The children, — ah, there sleepeth one 

Great heart beneath yon low white stone 

Who willingly accepted death 

To save one dear child's vital breath; — 

The Artist he,* whose memory bright 

Is sanctified with peaceful light 

In yonder home, where still they show 

The pictured scenes he used to know. 

Still in his quiet garden old 

The flowers spill their fragrant gold, 

Beyond his orchard shadows still 

Soft sunshine bathes the dreamy hill. 

Across his fields the yellowing wood 

Wears still its rich autumnal mood. 

Tranquil his landscape lies, yet dim 

With wistful memories of him. 

Those memories hold a kindly spell 

Beyond my 3^earning words to tell ; 

For me his name must mingle aye 

With thoughts of Plymouth old and gray 

And golden in the dying year. 

When recollection bears me here, 

When tranquil memory shall recall 

The charm and beauty of it all. 

And kindly friends again I greet 

And hear the children's voices sweet, 

Where ancient sycamores enfold 

The Meeting-house with leafy gold. 



AA/^HILE memories of the sainted souls remain, 

Whose dust in yonder graveyard long has lain, 
Wliile children yet unborn shall hold 
The hopes and visions of our sires of old, — 

*Thomas Hovenden 


Old London Grove Meeting 

So long dear London Grove shall stand 
A noble tower of strength in this loved land. 

'Neath yon great oak, last Quarterly meeting day, 

I lingered through the happy hour of noon ; 

I watched the breeze-touched branches softly sway, 

And heard the locusts chant their sleepy tune 

Among the emerald meads of fragrant hay, 

In that calm hour of noon. 

It was a golden day of Summer peace, 

The hills of harvest sounded with the song 

Of reapers garnering the rich increase 

Of yellow wheat fields ; and I lingered long 

Beneath the ancient oak tree's towering green 

That rises o'er the grass' velvet sheen 

And spreads its mighty branches in the breeze 

Superbly grand and strong. 

The happy children played beneath the trees 

And romped around the porch, a joyous band. 

The while their elders clasped the friendly hand 

And woke old memories of old days gone by. 

Looking across the dear, full-freighted years 

Of hopes and griefs, of mingled joy and tears, 

With reminiscent eye. 

And watching them, I thought of all the love 

And kindliness outpoured in plenteous streams, 

The heavenly intimations from above, 

The prayers, the aspirations and the dreams. 

Of earnest souls and true, 

Which these two hundred long, long years have seen 

In this old meeting on its hilltop green. 

Beneath the heaven's blue. 

As that great oak has grown from its green youth 
And gained in splendor slowly year by year. 
So London Grove has spread the light of truth 
And lit with radiance beautiful and dear 


At ^luarterly Meeting 

The heart of many a one, 

Slow building up its power through sire and son, 

Mother and daughter, day by patient day. 

Through full, ripe years of sunshine and of storm. 

Beneath this roof, inspiring words and warm 

Have roused the listening soul, 

Stirring the heart with dreams of human good, 

Of noble justice and of brotherhood, 

Of righteousness and hope. 

Here tender sympathy has helped console 

Soi'e-burdened hearts when all seemed dark and drear. 

Faint purposes have taken courage here 

And dared with evil fearlessly to cope. 

At London Grove were sowed the seeds 

That ripened into splendid deeds. 

And many a corner of the earth 

Has felt her faith and love, her weight and worth. 

Father, may she still 

Work out Thy heavenly will; 

And may her children, as in years of yore. 

Be consecrate to Thee forcvermore! 


'T'HE old and new are blent at London Grove, 

In this old House among the ancient trees. 
Set round with slopes of wheat and fragrant corn 
That sway and waver in the summer breeze. 

Below the turf in j^onder quiet field 

The old-time Quakers long have lain at rest ; 

The boxwood and the roses bend above 
The peaceful generations of the blest. 

Yet their immortal spirits look to-day 

From out the kindl}' faces round me here ; 

Their children's children are inheritors 
Of their soul-images beloved and dear. 


spring Meadow Meeting- House 

The ardor and the impulse that have stirred 
Yon sister pleading for the pure and right, — 

This brother bringing sympathy and hope, — 
Stirred long ago the "Children of the Light." 

As in far times this spacious House was thronged 
With genial elders and with gentle youth 

And bonnie children, — so to-day the old 

And young have come to hark for heavenly truth. 

The same heart-hunger deeply moves these Friends 
That moved of yore their venerated sires, — 

Ancestral yearnings for the word of God, 
Undying hopes and heaven-sent desires. 

Who fears our Faith is dying.? — Let him come 
To this old Meeting-house beneath the trees, 

And find celestial balm, while airs float in 

From corn-fields fragrant in the summer breeze. 


A MID the ancient mountain solitudes 
Of Penn's primeval woods. 
Where wanders Juniata's noble stream. 
It stands in quiet dream, — 
The old log Meeting-house of forest oak. 
Reared by the sturdy stroke 
Of Quaker settlers in those woodlands wild. 
Great hearts, of spirit mild. 

Great hearts were they, whose memory survives, 

Who passed their peaceful lives 

Amid the forest shades and pastoral vales 

Of Bedford's fertile dales. 

Remote from worldly haunt, how warm and dear 

Their cherished family cheer ! 

How strong their simple faith, their quiet creed, — 

Fit for the soul's high need; 


Meeting Memories 

How fruitfully has gone throughout the earth 
The spirit that here had birth ! 

Long have those goodly Friends of olden days 

Gone from these woodland wa3^s ; 

And lonel}' now and lorn the valley seems, 

Wrapt in its ancient dreams ; 

But of their deeds the memory survives, 

Their kindly, sterling lives ; 

And green Spring Meadow's flowers the vigil keep 

Around their tranquil sleep; 

And fittingly its guardian to-day 

Holdeth to Peace's sway, 

And children romp in summer hours divine 

About this antique shrine. 


{Read at the Centenary of Birmingham Monthly 
Meeting, West Chester, 1915) 

T ONG have I loved this Meeting ; its dear name, 

Its genial members and its quiet fame 
And old-time charm, have had no little part. 
Since childhood days, in wreathing round my heart 
Affection, love and gratitude sincere 
For all its blessings. 

How did I revere 
The pensive beauty of each friendly face 
That from "the gallery" shed its sober grace. 
The pensive beauty of the golden hours 
Of summer Sabbatlis, when the breath of flowers 
Was wafted through the windows, and the birds 
Chanted their happy hymns and warbled words ! 

O days of childhood here on "Quaker Hill," 
Their Meeting memories haunt my vision still, — 
Romantic memories that bear me back, 
How poignantly ! — along the starry track 


Meeting Memories 

Of recollections that forever hold 
Deep love for Birmingham revered and old. 
— Do they not touch each dreaming fancy so, 
Those faded childhood days of long ago ! 

To-day, returning to my boyhood home. 
Like some strayed mariner across the foam, 
And musing on old memories again, — 
I hear from long ago the silver rain 
Lashing the windows, and I see the snow 
Silently sifting, hear the wild winds blow 
Among the moaning trees, — mark each dim sound 
That reached us here from yon fair world around 
Surging up to these walls, yet coming not 
Within this sheltered and sequestered spot. 

Those sounds and sights of memory seem to blend — 
A spirit-frame for many an ancient Friend, 
For many a dear, unworldly, sainted soul 
Who long ago has reached the heavenly goal. 
We know them happy on that heavenly shore, 
Those friends whom we may see on earth no more ; 
— What hope we have that we may meet them there, 
Far from this world of mortal grief and care ! 
Their recollection still returns to bless 
With mercy, love, compassion, kindliness, 
Beaconing brightly from the vanished time 
So wrapt around with memories sublime. 

Thus, coming back to this loved place to-day, — 

We who have been so many moons away. 

So many years dispersed afar and wide 

Across the world, or sundered by the tide 

Of circumstance and fate, — come back once more 

And meet together like our sires of yore ; 

Forgiving and forgetting those sad j^ears 

Of needless separation, touched by tears 

Of loving-kindness that can truly heal 


IVest Chester Meeting-House 

Old hurts and make our generation feel 
Deep peace in God's great love. 

We know that deeds 
Transcend the petty difference of creeds ; 
We know that brave and gentle lives of love 
Are nearest to the heavenly type above, 
One breath of huvian brotherhood more worth 
Than all the wordy dogmas upon earth. 

Then let us thank the Father for this hour 
Whose blessings breathe upon us like some flower 
From out an olden garden sweet with balm 
And beautiful and simple with the calm 
Of golden memories and hearts that hold 
Deep love for Birmingham revered and old. 


My boyhood dreams come back to me. 
Old Meeting-house, at thought of thee : 

TTHE peaceful charm, the balmy air. 
The gentle, gentle faces there. 

The musing pensive people bound 
In quietude serene, profound, 

The sense of brotherhood and love 
Borne as on wings of heaven's dove. 

The sympathy that seemed to roll 
From heart to heart and soul to soul. 

The sign and seal of heavenly grace 
On many a sweet and kindly face. 

That rapt and wistful seemed to bless 
With depths of wondrous tenderness. 

The sense of deep thanksgiving there 
In uttered word and silent prayer, 


'Jolui Bn'o^/jt : Hero of Peace 

The noaniess of the Father's arm 

To shield His well-beloved from harm, 

When in that hour to us was given 
Some foretaste of tlie peace of heaven. 

Such hoiihood drfams come hack to mc. 
Oil! Mcctiinj-hoiisc, at thought of thcc. 


IJF^.RO of peace was he 

AVlu) all his length of days 
His noble voice did raise 
For light and liberty. 
Sturdy and pure of life 
He battled well and long, 
Rejoicing in the strife 
With ancient greed and wrong. 
The Friends' uuAvordly creed 
In life and thought and deed 
He followed perfectly, — 
Hero of peace was he. 

Our Quaker great and true, — 
His lofty soul serene 
Lighted his eyes and mien 
With heaven shining through. 
His zeal knew no surcease. 
Rut guided from above 
He spread the bounds of peace. 
Of brotherhood and love; 
And men remember still 
His mighty heart and will. 
They bless his name who knew 
Our Quaker great and true. 

"A good man never dies'' 
His spirit and his name 


A Portrait of Samuel M, "Janney 

Are still preserved by fame ; 

And when disasters rise 

And evils hcd^e us round 

The memory of his might 

Doth help us hold our ground 

And conquer in the fight. 

Yea, while the ages roll 

Nobility of soul 

Brings heaven down from the skies; — 

A good 7nan never dies! 


IT' ROM old-world Cheshire came the Janney line, 

Folk of strong sense and gracious instinct fine. 
Whose far-off sire,* an honored friend of Penn, 
Is cherished in the memories of men 
As of an "innocent and blameless life" 
And peaceful spirit — one to whom the strife 
And discord of the world were alien things. 

From him the Loudoun line of Janney springs; 
Yea, something of old-time Virginia grace 
Adorns and shines from out the pictured face 
Of Samuel Janney. Sure, the kindly South 
Gave him his sunny eyes and smiling mouth, 
And softened with affection warm and dear 
The sturdy soul and honest heart sincere. 

Of what avail is worldly power 

Compared with life's consummate flower — 

A soul like his, serene and kind! 

Ample the evidence I find 

In this delightful likeness here, 

Of modest worth and honor clear; 

Ample its testimony sure 

Unto the noble virtues that endure. 

*Thomas Janney 


A Portrait of Martha Ellicott Tyson 

Of "innocent and blameless life " was he, 
Like that far sire who journeyed o'er the sea; 
And in the record of his life we read 
Of fruitful years, of many a friendly deed, 
Of ministry to all who had a part 
Within the compass of his noble heart — 
That make this simple Quaker kind and quaint, 
Loved and remembered like some gentle saint. 


{At Swarthmore College) 

T LOVE to hear the older people tell 

How this dear Friend and Benjamin Hallowell, 
Back in the far-off year of '64, 
Beheld their vision of Swarthmore; 
And how with patient faith they wrought, 
Inspiring kindred spirits with their thought, 
Until, their vision flowering into act. 
They saw their noble dream become a fact. 

Here in our college hall 

Hangs Martha Tyson's portrait on the wall, 

Where generations of our students see 

What gentle charm, what fine simplicity 

Were hers ; and how that friendly face 

Is lit with loving kindness and a grace 

Born of the spirit's power, — 

Breath of the beauteous heavenly flower 

Of woman's tenderness and woman's love, — 

Sweet and unfading virtues, far above 

Such lore as dusty books can teach ! 

The beauty of our quiet Quaker speech 

And calm unwordly ways 

Were with this gentle soul through all her days ; 

Her native vales and hills. 

The meadows where she heard 


A Portrait of Martha Kllicott Tyson 

The silver song of many a blissful bird, 

The little woodland streams 

Beside Avhose banks she dreamed her girlhood dreams, 

All that loved land around old Ellicotts Mills, 

Had set their impress on her heart ; 

Their memory formed a fadeless part 

Of her pure character; and to the end 

Of her career as mother, wife and friend. 

There breathed from her an influence fair, 

A reverential spirit deep, 

Drawn in by her with the sweet country air 

In her life's golden prime. 

Some echo of that olden time 

I sense, in musing on her portrait here ; 

I see her homestead loved and dear 

Among the meadows where the "j^ellow-throats" 

Pour forth their gushing notes ; 

Old Maryland meeting-houses, too, that keep 

Watch o'er the graves where silent sleep 

Shadow and sun through year on tranquil year, 

A pleasant countryside 

Of Quaker farmlands green and wide ; 

Such was her native place. 

; — Such charm, such peaceful beauty give their grace 

To many a Quaker saint of latter time. 

Whose memory I love to wreathe in rime. 

Better than books, the hearts that hold 

Immortal lessons grand and sweet, — 

Imperishable beauty tliat can touch 

Our spirits, wearied overmuch 

With dust and clamor of the busy street ! 

— So must we bless 

Her tranquil face of gentle quietness, — 

Hers, who with strong-souled Benjamin Hallowell 

Helped found our Swarthmore, as our annals tell. 


The Grave of Lucretia MoU 


{Friends' Burial Ground, Fair Hill, Philadelphia) 

X-J ERE is the still home of the dead, 
Where all is quiet save the breeze 

That stirs the drooping willow trees, 
Lies a revered and saintly head. 
The noises of the busy town 

Fade into murmurous tones and low; 

In silence here the ivies grow 
And roses drop their petals down; 
The honej^suckles clothe the ground 

And moisten it with fragrant dew, 

And violets weave a veil of blue 
In vernal days o'er each low mound. 
And lingering here in evening's glow 

And looking back across the years, 

My eyes are filled with tender tears 
At thought of her who lies below. 

'Tis not of blighted hopes I tell, 

Of youth cut down before its time, 

Of death that visits in his prime 
A Lycidas or Astrophel; 
But with a calmer voice I sing 

The gleaning of the ripened sheaf. 

And for the fallen autumn leaf 
I strike the sweetly mournful string. 
For some must lie on youthful biers. 

And some pass down the noonday road; 

But she in life's green fields abode 
For more than eighty lovely years. 
Four score and seven summers fled, 

Four score and seven winters white, 

Ere faded from our grieving sight 
The beauty of that silver head. 


The Grave of Lucretia Mott 

And yet we know she is not gone, 
Although her face we see no more, 
For reaching from the farther shore 

With us her spirit liveth on. 

Her spirit liveth on, and still, 

As when she walked our human way, 
It beckons to the perfect day 

Decreed by the Eternal Will. 

And pausing here beside her grave 
Beneath the sheltering maple tree, 
I muse upon the legacy 

Which to humanity she gave. 

When she perceived her sisters bound 
And fettered by convention's chain. 
She raised her hand not all in vain, 

And was with those who broke the ground 

That led unto our larger age, 
When noble women day by day 
With banded effort cast away 

Their sad historic heritage. 

In da^'s when bigotry reviled 

Those Christ-like souls serene and brave 
Who sought to free the shackled slave. 

She stood with face divinely mild. 

And hushed with gentle voice the cries 
Of surging mobs enraged and rude, — 
Unflinching in her fortitude. 

Without retreat or compromise. 

Bearing the cross with zeal sublime. 
For pause or rest she would not 3'ield, 
But ever labored in the field 

That whitened unto harvest time. 

O for the faith of ages gone 

Whose echoes through the cycles roll, — ■ 
The glory of this steadfast soul 

In those dark hours before the dawn ! 

The Grave of Lucretia Moti 

She rested not by night or day, 

She made her field all human good, 
And fed with spiritual food 

Frail hearts that fainted by the way. 

And maxims wise for age and youth 
At fitting seasons would she quote: 
"Truth for authority," she wrote, 

"And not authority for truth." 

When duty called she knew no choice. 
She ever saw her pathway clear, 
Obe3dng, void of earthly fear. 

The promptings of the still, small voice. 

Not loftier of soul I hold 

Grave Fox, the father of our Sect, 

Who like a godly architect 
Reared up the fabric of his fold; 
Nor humble-hearted Woolman, he 

Who wore with lowly grace and mild, 

The innocence as of a child, 
The whiteness of simplicity ; 
Nor Whittier, our poet-voice. 

Who with the ardors of his song 

Struck down the strength of ancient wrong 
And made humanity rejoice. 
In paths of saintliness they trod, 

But brighter yet becomes their fame 

When of their fellowship we name 
This daughter of the living God. 

And, Swarthmore, thou wert not unknown 

To her beside whose grave I muse ; 

She shared the large and liberal views 
Of those who laid thy corner-stone. 
And still to-day her pictured face 

Serenely gazes from thy walls, 

And like a benediction falls 
The beauty of its placid grace. 


Howard M, yen kins 

May her example through the years 

Unto thy children serve as t3^pe, 

A living, cheering presence ripe 
With strength for hours of doubts and fears ! 
The inward monitor she heard, 

And spoke its hests in accents true ; 

The perfect peace of God she knew, 
This gracious bearer of the Word. 

Sleep well, dear heart, while ages roll; 
Sleep well in thine eternal rest. 
Glories we cannot know invest 

The sanctuaries of the soul ; 

But here beside thy earthly bed 
'Tis good to come at close of day. 
When worldly things seem far away 

And heaven's peace just overhead; 

And dreaming of thy sainted face, 
A train of grateful revery flows 
As tranquilly as bends the rose 

Beside thy quiet resting-place. 



KNOW not where among the hills of Heaven 
Thy sweet aspiring soul may climbing be ; 
I only know how much of joy and gladness 
And shining light went out of life with thee. 


nPHE breath of May, the coming hand of June, 
With quickening power to bless abundantl}', 
Are felt to-day among these mighty hills. 
Wild wood-flowers star the sylvan corridors, 
The highland pastures shine with freshened green 
Of herbage soft, and dreaming summer clouds 


Henry W^, Wilbur 

Drift o'er the forest solitudes that stretch 
In league on league of virgin loveliness. 

Here where God's sweet air blows o'er birch and pine 

And flowery pasture-land, we come once more 

To find fresh joy and peace on these green heights. 

One friend comes not, — he who had set his heart 

On this fair mountain-settlement, and saw 

High promises of benefit and joy 

And spiritual good to come to those 

Who have their summer homes on these great hills. 

God took him from us ; — but the memory 
Of his fine service will remain to bless 
All our activities, to consecrate 
Whate'er of tranquil happiness is ours 
In contemplation of God's noble works 
Here spread about in such magnificence. 
His hope be ours, ours be his happy faith; 
And let his spirit live in all the songs 
Of these wild birds, breathe in these wildwood flowers, 
Sound in the solemn cadence of the winds 
That sweep these tossing seas of forest boughs. 
So will his hopes find fruit, ay, richer fruit 
Than he could dream of, and his peace and joy 
Like to a benediction on us rest 
Unseen yet felt with sure serenity. 
Buclc Hill Falls, Pa., June, 1903 


{"Henry Wilbur was a patriot, a reformer, and a man of 
Go^."— William T. Ellis) 

A^7HEN some great mountain is eclipsed in cloud 

And only in our memory remains 
Far rising with its heaven-reaching head 
Above the lowly valleys and the plains, 
Our yearning recollections wraps it round 


A River of the Spirit 

With wonder and affection and we grieve, — 
We lonely dwellers of the level ground, — 
For that great mountain's majesty and might 
As once we knew it bathed in glorious light. 

What though the noble soul for whom we grieve, — 

Noble and wise and kind and simply great, — 

Beyond the cloudy limits of our world, 

Beyond the barriers of our mortal state 

Has passed, — O yet how warm the glow 

And recollected radiance of his power, 

His burning zeal for right and truth. 

His genial love for earnest-hearted youth. 

His strength in speech and in the quiet hour 

Of meditation and of friendly cheer ! 

Life is more noble than he lived, more dear, 

Suffused more deeply as with heavenly light. 

— O what poor words of ours can tell 

How long we loved him and how well 

Who gloried in his sunny spirit's majesty and might! 

—He truly was A MAN OF GOD. 


{Written for Founders' Night of the Philadelphia 
Y. F. A., 19U) 

\^I7"H0 does not love, beside some noble stream 

That flows with strength majestic through the 
To wander 'neath the willow trees and dream — 

Beholding in his vision every rill 
And little bubbling brook that feeds. 

With never-failing waters sure, 
That noble river from each distant hill 
And wildwood fountain pure.^* 

O think of all the peaceful farms. 

The pastures and the groves of evergreen, 


For the ^^aker Pageant 

The far-laid landscape's dreamy charms, 

The old stone bridges, rain-washed, sunny-clean, 
Past which those myriad waters go 

With glad and silver song. 
To mingle with the river and to flow 

With ever-widening power along 
Through shadowy wood and emerald lea 

And melt at last into the sounding sea. 

Like one of those far fountains pure and clear 

That pours its waters toward the valley's stream- 
So does this Friends' Association seem; 

From its first flowings in a bygone year 
It waxed and widened, fed along its course 

By younger currents. Gaining still in force. 
And ever from fresh branches gathering strength, 

It spread its fertilizing power 
And beautified the land, until at length 

We see it at this anniversary hour 
A noble river of the spirit, flowing 

Beneficent and kindly, and bestowing 
Abundant blessing in full many a field — 

Rich harvests of the heart, a goodly yield. 

'Now to the Father offering thankfulness y 
We pray that He our labors still may bless. 


{Saratoga Springs Conference, 1914-) 


A S upon a painted scroll 

Let us now the scenes unroll 
That picture how the dreams of Fox and Penn 
Found rich fruitage in the lives of men. 


Friends' Conference Echoes 

Man}' a garret's antique chest 

In our service has been pressed; 

Many an olden coat and gown, 

Dove-grey dress and bonnet brown, 

Beaver hat and faded shawl, — 

Precious, precious heirlooms all. 

Holding each its memory dear, — 

Reverently were carried here. 

Brought into the light of day once more, 

That we, garbed like those loved Friends of yore, 

Might enact beside the silent wood, — 

Still the home of peace and solitude, — 

Scenes that tell how dreams of Fox and Penn 

Found rich fruitage in the lives of men. 

Now hath our great-souled Founder looked on all 
Which to his Quaker brethren did befall, — 
How from the old world to the new was brought 
The simple faith for which men long had sought, 
And how the heavenly precepts of our creed 
Were voiced in fearless word and righteous deed, — 
Until the hopes and dreams of Fox and Penn 
Found rich fruitage in the lives of men. 

From these scenes passed in review 
Let us now our strength renew. 
And at this our Pageant's end 
Glory in the name of Friend. 


{Caye May, 1916) 


TTHE gleaming shells we gather on the beach 

Shall oft recall to us this shining shore. 
The children and the music and the mirth, 
The lines of plunging foam, the billows' roar. 


Friends' Conference Echoes 


Name after name we wrote upon the sand 
And saw the waters wash them all away. 

Not so the memories of those kindly friends — 
They live unfading in the heart for aye. 


If great sea-winds and sun and silver rains 

Can bring such splendid perfect flowers as these, 

Shall we not seek afresh to ope our souls 

For God's sweet sun and rain and vital breeze! 


Who would not be a little child again 

To share with them their innocent delight, 

And, free awhile from dulling cark and care. 
To frolic in the sand from morn to night ! 


Set to the mighty murmur of the sea 
That music held a double charm for me — 
Old opera airs, old Scotch and Irish strains. 
That lead the heart down Memory's magic lanes. 


League on green league they melt into the sky. 
Bordered with tangled woodlands weird and wild. 

Where I would wander as in days of old 
And gather flowers, happy as a child. 


Farewell, green meadows and blue ancient sea, 
Whose lure and loveliness no words may tell ; 

Through all we heard of high and noble here 

There streams the glory of your wondrous spell. 
* * * 


At Cape Henlopen looking toward Cape May 
I thought, — upon a tranquil Sabbath day, — 


David Ferris 

Of those addresses that appealed to me 
At our great Conference beside the sea, 
Where late we spent such memorable hours 
By the bright ocean and the brilliant flowers. 

More noble in this setting did they seem, 
Those records of the vision and the dream 
Of Friendly leaders ; for the sea and sun. 
Quickening my feelings, made my musings run 
Forward unto that happy time foretold. 
That ampler era like an age of gold 
When brotherhood and loving service flower 
Beyond all we dare hope for at this hour. 

And as I mused, and watched the waters creep 

And murmur up the sands with glassy sweep. 

Till the strong inrush of the tumbling tide 

Had surged far up those sandy beaches wide, 

I seemed to see an allegory there, — 

Eacli Iwpeful tJiought and every heart-felt prayer 

That stirred those eager Friends beside the sea, 

A leave upon life's ocean seemed to be. 

Lifting the levels of the striving soul 

Yet nearer unto Time's eternal goal; — 

Not without storm and many a backward slide 

In buffeting the rigors of the tide 

Yet gaining surely toward our heavenly home 

Beyond the thunder of the falling foam. 


IS recitation of the deep-loved lines 

Of Whitticr's verse, I never can forget; 
The good old man, with his heart-warming smile 
And loving voice, — I seem to see him yet ! 



"Mind the Light" 


T RECOLLECT with reverence and love 

The gentle tranquil one, most kind and dear, 
Her home-bred wisdom and her courtesy, 
Her face transfigured with unfailing cheer. 


(J. N. G.) 

T IKE to the quiet strength of that great pine 

Beside thy grave, seems that long life of thine,- 
A life of simple truth and honor clear. 
And lit with kindness, love, and friendly cheer. 


T END me. Lord, thy kindly grace, 

Thy aid through day and night; 
Shine on me with friendly face, 

And help me mind the Light. 
Stand beside me through the storm, 

Cheer my soul with radiance bright; 
With thy heavenly comfort warm, 

And help me mind the Light. 

Lord, I lay my trust in Thee, 

My faith through day and night ; 
Through all hours my comfort be 

And help me mind the Light. 
Never shall I quail or fear. 

Feeling still thy heavenly might. 
Knowing, Lord, how Thou art near 

To help me mind the Light. 

*Set to music by Charles T. Sempers 


Molly Pryce : 

A Quaker Idyll 

Dedicated to 

Isaac H. Clothier 

Wlio loves old-time Quakerism 


C WEET Molly Pryce in apple-blossom time 

Went down to Yearly Meeting; all the way 
The apple-blossoms fell in fairy drifts 
About the carriage wheels or gleamed afar 
Among the orchards by the river shore ; 
For Molly and her father drove nine miles 
Among Bucks County farms, and then took boat 
At old Penn's Manor wharf by that old farm 
Where friendliest hospitality prevails. 

Most beautiful and lovable was she, 
Young Molly, David Prj^ce's joy and pride. 
Bearing in her dark eyes and fragrant hair, 
Her sweet unconscious grace and gentle charm. 
Remembrance of her mother's grace and charm — 
That mother dead five years, beside whose grave 
They lingered on the third mile of their way, 
A lonely spot upon a breezy hill 
Shaded by evergreens that all day long 

Molly Pryce 

Murmured soft elegies ; here Molly placed 

Fresh flowers upon the grassy mound, and thought 

With wistful eyes of that dear mother's love 

And constant tenderness ; it seemed to her 

That naught in all the world could take the place 

Of that so dear solicitude that now 

Shone holy in the light of memory. 

Silent her father, — he could speak no word. 

But only press her hand ; thus silently 

They stood a few brief moments, then passed on 

From out the lonely shade and down the hill 

And through long apple orchards white with bloom. 

Delightful seemed Bucks County's countryside, 

So bounteous in rustic charm, so rich 

In farmlands, pastures green, and shadowy woods 

In whose cool depths they heard the wild wood-thrush 

Fluting his fairy music ; and old homes 

Grey with the peaceful years, where, by the wall, 

The fragrant lilacs grew, and daffodils. 

And dandelions flecked the emerald turf 

With golden stars. And now they left the land 

And journeyed through the happy afternoon 

A-down the gleaming river, past green isles 

That dreaming lay upon the silver stream. 

Past many a quiet field and lonely farm. 

They watched the panting steamboats surging by 

With gently heaving swell, and barges piled 

With hay and cord-wood ; they en j oyed the stir 

And momentary bustle on the wharves 

Of sleepy river-towns, and watched grave Friends 

Come on the boat, whose purpose was to spend 

The week at Yearly Meeting. 

Drawing near 
To Philadelphia, they beheld far off 
And high above the myriad-chimneyed smoke 


Molly Pryce 

And endless clangor, — Penn's vast statue throned 
Against the heavens, o'er the steepled fanes 
And dream}' domes and spires of his loved town, 
Above the mighty rivers winding slow, — 
Gold in the sun or silvered by the moon, 
And bright with stately ships ; above it all 
Great Penn looks down with mild benignity 
And mild pacific gesture, facing far 
Toward Shakamaxon and the Treaty Elm, 
Where that firm league, unsworn to and unbroken, 
Was plighted 'twixt the simple forest men 
And the great simple-hearted English Friend. 


T^HE Pryces found a home in Logan Square 

Hard by the great Cathedral, from whose choir 
They heard the vesper-service, — heavenly hymns 
Chanted in solemn Latin, to the bass 
Of deep-toned organ-music. Soaring out 
Across the Square at sunset, o'er the flowers 
And o'er the peaceful green, they seemed divine, — 
Those ancient immemorial vesper-hymns. 

And in the evening Molly found a book, 

A little leather-covered volume, "Printed 

By Luke Hinde, at the Bible in Lombard-street, 

In London, seventeen hundred fifty-three"; 

And settling in a western window-seat 

She read the Travels of John Fothergill, 

The life and labors of the gentle sage 

Of pleasant Wensleydale, whose famous son, 

John Fothergill, the kindly Quaker leech. 

The friend of Franklin and of Humphry Marshall, 

Founded old Ackworth, that great English school 

From which our sires a century ago 

Patterned our goodly Westtown with high zeal, — 

Calm Westtown 'mid its sheltering woods and hills, 


Molly Prvce 

Breathing of pcaccfulness and quiet charm, 
And dear with many precious memories. 

Most quaint and edif3'ing Molly found 

This book of Fothergill's, — narrating how 

The love and power of Truth had reached the hearts 

Of tender-spirited folk, where he had preached 

One summer day at Dover ; but, he says, — 

And 'twas a contrast to his happier hours, — 

The evil spirit stirred a woman up 

To jangle and clamor against the Truth and Friends, 

Till divers of the hearers quieted her. 

And Molly further read how this good man 

At Nathan Newb^^'s in Virginia 

Preached to "world's people" living "there-away," 

And found them eager for the living Word. 

Yet on another day at Western-branch 

Came many "witli wliom Truth had little place," 

Though help was given to several "tender Friends." 

Thus Molly learned amid what joys and trials, 

What heart-felt joys and half-amusing trials, 

The early Friends had fared about the world 

Arousing souls that hungered for the Light. 

And as the twilight deepened, Molly heard, 

Leaning from out the western window-seat, 

A harp and viol played by young Italians 

Along the southern side of Logan Square. 

It was a song her mother once had loved, 

The melting, sad sweet song, Alice, Where Art Thou? 

They played it with sucli fervor that it seemed 

The very spirit of that night of May ; 

Kind Molly's heart was touched, and there was formed 

A memory for many days to come 

Of that blest evening when the music blent 

With Fothergill's quaint volume ; such the power 

Of simplest joys to move young Molly's soul. 


Molly Pryce 

Sinking to sleep that night, — above the hum 
And sleepy murmur of the streets, there rang 
In Molly's dreams that song her mother loved. 

The silver rain falling. 

Just as it fnlleth now; 
And all things slept gently. 

Ah! Alice, where art thou? 

I've sought thee by lakelet, 
I've sought thee on the hill. 

And in the pleasant woodland 

When winds blew cold and chill. 

I've sought thee in forest, 

I'm looking heavenward now; 

Oh! there amid the star-shine, 
Alice, I know, art thou. 


f~\ N First-day afternoon the Pryces heard 

A thousand children in the Meeting-house 
Reciting poetry ; it was a thing 
To be remembered, — all that innocent host 
Of little folk declaiming in accord 
The noble Psalms and the Beatitudes, 
With passages from the inspiring verse 
Of Whittier, — sweet childish voices lifted 
In waves of harmony, sweet childish looks 
Of earnestness and winsome tenderness. 
While they proclaimed the solemn and mighty truths 
Poured out from fiery souls to lift mankind, 
In words immortal and harmonious : 

The earth is the Lord's, 

and the fulness thereof ; 

the world, 

and they that dwell therein. 


Molly Pryce 

For he hath founded it 
upon the seas, 
and established it 
upon the floods. 

Who shall ascend 

into the hill of the Lord? 
or who shall stand 
in his holy place? 

He that hath clean hands, 
and a pure heart; 

who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity, 
nor sworn deceitfully. 

And Molly mused "The hum of multitudes 
Was there, but multitudes of lambs," recalling 
Blake's touching song ; and as she wended home 
Beside her father in the sunset hour. 
While the Cathedral bells poured golden floods 
Of harmony on high, she still could hear 
The cadences of Whittier's tender lines 
As they were spoken by that childish host : 

/ have hut Thee, my Father! let Thy spirit 
Be with me then to comfort and uphold; 

No gate of pearl, no branch of palm I merit. 
Nor street of shining gold. 

Some humble door among Thy many mansions, 

Som,e sheltering shade xvhere sin and striving cease. 

And flows forever through heaven's green expansions 
The river of Thy peace. 

There, from the music round about me stealing, 
I fain would learn the new and holy song. 

And find at last, beneath Thy trees of healing. 
The life for which I long. 


Molly Pryce 


^OW David Pr3^ce went in on Second-day 

And sat among the men in his old seat 
Upon the seventh row, facing the "gallery" 
Where sat the genial Clerk, among old men. 
Grey-haired, from forth whose kindly glances beamed 
Ineffable peace and calm. And David nodded 
To friends in their old places, — serious men 
Of weight and circumstance ; young men whose e3^es 
Were lit by love or dreams of some high good ; 
With here and there a harmless "enthusiast" ; 
And hearty farmers bringing from their fields 
The peace of quiet hills and tranquil streams. 

When various matters of routine were past, 

A question rose of sending a petition 

To some high officer of state ; a few 

Approved with eager words, but most held back, 

And some feared they might reach no settlement ; 

When Israel Darlington, mild-tempered, calm, 

A just, considerate man of dignity, 

Counselled their waiting on the Lord ; his strength 

Recalled more hasty ones whose urgent wills 

Less readily brooked delay; the Meeting joined 

With Israel in many-voiced assent 

Of "So do I" and "That Friend speaks my mind" ; 

And thus, as always, peaceful ways prevailed. 

And David's gentle daughter meanwhile went 
And took her seat upon the Race Street side. 
Many the types of women Molly saw 
In that high spacious room, — matrons, and girls, 
And venerable Friends of nigh four-score; 
Serene, calm eyes of wisdom and of age. 
Fresh-blooming faces kissed by country air 
And rosy with good health, kind friendly looks 
Dark eyes that brooded tranquilly in dreams 


Molly Pryce 

Of joys and griefs gone bv, (leterniined miens 
Fixt on good purposes and simple deeds 
Of helpfulness. Some restless seemed, and vexed, 
Yet. these were few; contentment held chief place 
In that great gathering, and generous love 
And womanly warmth of heart. 

Sweet Molly felt 
A subtle influence that wrapt her round 
With peace and benediction, such as come 
In those best hours of life when we repose 
Upon the Love Divine. Life larger seemed 
In that abounding presence; consciously 
Did she respond to that inflowing spirit 
That bathed the company with light and love. 
Thoughts hitherto half- formed now stood forth clear 
AVith beautiful import, and the precious hours 
Were like a rebirth for the noble girl. 
As likewise for full many another there 
Of that great sisterhood. The noise of the world 
Was far removed, and utter calm prevailed 
As time moved by, soothing the restless few 
To harmony with the others. 

nnriFiN came the noon that brought mid-day recess 

With social mingling in the yard, and hum 
Of many voices, — needed rest and change 
After the Meeting's tension; like cool showers 
Following long sunshine. Molly, in the crowd 
That slowly moved through the packed hall to lunch,- 
Where many are called but few seem chosen, — heard 
Fragments of talk and homely interchange 
Of news, as — "Yes, the wheat looks fairly well 
But needs a IccWo raiii" ; "The Tlobinsons 
Have moved to Trenton, they'll be sadly missed" ; 
"I always use three cups of milk in mine, 


Molly Pryce 

And one of su^ar" ; "The Queries suited vie. 
Why do they want to change 'em?" "Yes, poor Amy 
Has been a sufferer always ! !' "Well, thee knows 
Samuel has sold his cattle?" 

Thus with talk 
And quiet laughter, younger folks and old 
Enjoyed the hour of lunch, where lemon-butter 
(The sort we always see at Quaker picnics) 
And meats and crackers and coffee and luscious jam, 
Sweet pickles and delicious home-made rusk, 
Were handed out in generous store ; and then 
Some sauntered in the yard, and some took naps 
Reclining in the shadowy Meeting-house 
On the long benches. Molly met old friends, 
Two girls whom she had known at boarding-school, 
Lucy and Delia Hoopes, who talked with her. 
Standing beneath the trees, of good old times 
And bright, glad memories ; and presentl}'^ 
A party of their home-friends coming up, 
Each was made known to M0II3'. 

All were pleased 
With Molly's charming looks and kindly ways ; 
And more especially did she delight 
The soul of Roger Morland, a young farmer, 
Comely and tall, and straight as an Indian, 
Kindly of look, and ruddy from out-door life, 
A noble youth to move a maiden's love, — 
Who'd left his acres by the IJrandywine 
For the week at Yearly Meeting. Roger thought 
He ne'er had seen one whom he more admired 
Than bonny Molly ; and when Lucy Hoopes 
Invited Molly for a visit, Roger 
Inly was pleased, blessing the happy chance 
That brought acquaintance with the gentle girl 
And promised further friendship. 


Molly Pryce 

Molly read, 
That evening by the window-seat, the tale 
George Fox narrates, of how at Rochester 
He fell into a trance and seemed to see 
The New Jerusalem descending down 
From heaven. The beauty and the glory of it 
Did he behold, and in his vision felt 
Assurance strong that all who are within 
The light of Christ and in his holy faith, 
And in the grace and truth and power of God, — 
They rightl}^ of the Tree of Life may eat. 
Whose leaves are for the healing of the nations, 
— The ancient eloquent fervor seemed the crown 
Of that day's great experience ; Molly mused 
Over the olden volume, while a song 
Rose from a near-by home, a dear old song 
Simple and touching, — 

Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low. 
And the flickering shadows softly come and go; 
Though the heart be weary, sad the day and long. 
Still to us at twilight 
Comes lovers old song. 
Comes love's old sweet song. 

Footsteps may falter, weary grow the way. 
Still we can hear it at the close of day; 
So till the end, when life's dim shadows fall. 
Love will he found the sweetest song of all. 

The sad-sweet lyric brought to Molly's mind 
Remembrances of girlhood days gone by, 
Her home among the hills, the little stream 
Down in the valley, and the robin's song 
Among the apple trees ; and with it all 
Mingled a yearning tenderness of heart 
Awakened by the thought of love's old song. 


Molly Pryce 


' 'T^HE sweetest song of all," — still did it sing 

In Molly's heart, though yet she did not know 
Its import, for she still was fancy-free, 
Albeit dimly feeling the appeal 
Of Roger Morland's manliness and strength. 

Now on the sunny Fifth-day of the week 
When Meeting would be late in settling down, 
And there was time for visiting at ease, 
David and Molly strolled up Seventh Street 
And breakfasted with Ebenezer Jones, 
David's old friend, who dealt in grain and feed 
On Market Street, and therefore gave his guests 
Rolled oats and hominy and wheaten grits, — 
For Ebenezer was a thrifty Friend! — 
And while the two men talked of years gone by 
When they were boys together, hunting squirrels 
And carrying water from the school-house spring 
On poles between them, and at Christmas sledding 
Down the steep frozen hill-sides — Molly sat 
Browsing in books on Ebenezer's shelves. 
Old Quaker volumes bound in faded calf. 

One book attracted her, a portly tome. 

The Journal of George Fox; she took it down 

And in a quiet ingle-nook she read 

Its moving tales and testimonies strange, — 

How once there came to Fox in Carlisle gaol 

A little lad but sixteen years of age 

Who sought the truth ; and being there convinced, 

Became a powerful minister of the Word, — 

Young James Parnel. Alas, he lived not long, 

But met a martyr's death. At Colchester, 

In that grim castle, where he was obliged 

By his inhuman gaoler to abide 

In a noisome hole high up in the castle wall, 


Molly Pryce 

Once, goin^' down by liuUlor and a rope 
To fetch his meals, — so he was forced to do, — 
The poor lad fell on the stones and cruelly 
Was injured, so that m short space lie died. 

And on another page did Molly read 

How 1\)X took ship for far America, 

And as they sailed, one afternoon, behold 

A Sallee man-of-war held them in chase. 

Much to the people's fear. In great alarm 

They begged of Fox to aid tliem; he replied: 

"/f is a trial of faith; therefore the Ijord 

Is to he xvaited on for eounsel.'' Then, 

He praying, knew that God was come between 

The vessel and her pirate enemies ; 

So they escaped. 

Kind Molly thrilled with joy 
O'er that escape, and silently she wept 
At James Parnel's most jiitiful fate and end. 
And yet this reading fortified her spirit 
And wrought in such wise on her sympathy, 
That she was touched with love for all the world. 
Then silently to Meeting did she walk 
Beside her father, silently went in 
And drank refreshment from the silence there. 



T was a noble company that met 
That morning in the silence. Beautiful 
The calm and dignity prevailing there 
Among those gentle Friends ; and beautiful 
The sympathy and kindly spirit of love 
Flowing from all toward all. Ne'er had she known 
Sweet Molly Pryce, a fuller sense of peace 
And gladness ; verily it seemed to her 
That life nuist ever fuller, sweeter be 
From that environing air of peace and love. 


Molly Pryce 

An old iiiun, silvery of luiir and board, 

Arose and, lialf-comniuning with himself. 

Told of his youthful sorrows, and the joy 

That came in riper years ; and much he told 

Of the great peace that had been his of late 

From thinking of God's words, "Be still, and know," 

How often, when the storm was fierce. 
My path was dreary, and the thorns did pierce, — 
/ paused, and heeding this divine command. 
Beheld sweet roses blooming ^viid the sand. 

How often, when I long for rest. 

Borne down by toil and care, 
I wake to find myself most blest, 

God's happy child and heir; 
To find that good doth ceaseless flow 
To those who heed ''Be still, and know.''* 

And then a gentle, sweet-faced matron rose, — 

Dove-gray of garb, dear Rachel Pemberton, 

One marked by kindliness of look, and strong 

With strength born not of this world; and she told 

How unseen things are greater than the seen. 

The spirit more enduring than the flesh, 

Being immortal. — Listen to the thrush 

Chanting his magic music in deep shade 

And pouring forth his heart in solitude; 

Or hear the skylark, — dropping down his song 

From highest heaven and flooding all the air 

With rapturous melody, — Thou art unseen," 

Sang Shcllev to the lark, "but vet I hear 

Thy shrill delight !" 

And Wordsworth pondering 
The cuckoo's hidden harmony, exclaimed, — 

Though babbling only to the vale 
Of sunshine and of flowers, 

*By Thora Hago 


Molly Pryce 

Thou hringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, ilarling of the Spring! 

Even yet thou art to me 

No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery. 

And so with eloquent thought and beauteous verse 
From pomt to point of her discourse she passed, 
Showing the spirit's victor3\ Then far-off 
And faintly as some voice heard but in dreams, 
There floated in an old beloved song 
By a wandering singing girl in Cherry Street, — 

Last night the nightingale woke me. 
Last night zchcn all was still. 

It sang in the golden moonlight 
From out the woodland hill. 

I open'd my window so gently, 
I look'd on the dreaming dew. 

And oh! the bird, my darling. 
Was singing, singing of you. 

The flowers that slumber so gently. 

The stars above the blue. 
Oh, heaven itself, my darling. 

Is praying, praying for yoii. 


"M^OW Roger Morland, in the meeting-house 

At Birmingham, among the home-Friends there, 
Had spoken now and then, being stirred thereto 
By inward feeling, — thoughts and reveries 
That shaped themselves when he was at his work 
About the barn, or following the plow 
Across the hills, or fishing in the stream 
In summer days. Among the home-Friends there 


Molly Pryce 

He was beloved for sterling character 

And tlioughtfulness ; and found encouragement 

From older Friends whene'er he spoke in meeting. 

This morning Rachel Pembcrton's discourse, 

And that old song a-wavering on the air 

So tenderly, touched Roger Morland deeply. 

And to his own and his young friends' surprise, — 

And Molly Pryce's pleased surprise, — he rose 

And modestly but firmly, in fit words, 

Enlarged on Rachel's thought; and from his own 

Experience, his reveries on the hills 

Above the peaceful-flowing Brandywine, 

His fireside dreams, his simple-seeming days 

Of joy in grass and birds, wild flowers and winds, — 

Spoke out his heart. — Something of all of these 

Did Roger bring before his hearers, showing 

His love of the eternal, in his love 

For God's high beauty that adorns the earth. 

He quoted from a young dead poet, one 

Who sang with tender fervor : "And as I 

Do love the neighborhood of green and blue, 

The forest and the sky ; the silver love 

That glistens in the stream, and that low light 

That passes from the faces of the flowers ; 

So by this promise and confession I 

Do love thee," — old Wawassan, childhood stream ! 

Ah, silence in the forest ! I have learned 

More from the hush of forests than from speech 

Of many teachers, more of joy at least. 

Thus the young farmer ended ; and at noon 

The Friends exchanging views of what they'd heard, 

Agreed that Roger Morland's quiet power 

And warmth sincere, held promise of much fruit 

When he should ripen in the ministry 

And add to native strength the mellow wisdom 

That cometh with the rich and deepening years. 


Molly Pryce 


'T'HE liberal and liberty-loving Friends 

In Yearly Meeting met, with patience drew 
Toward a conclusion of their week's assay 
Of matters spiritual and matters temporal, 
Their "querying after" all the prime essentials 
Of daily life, of walking in the light 
Of truth as God hath given us to see it. 

The noble, pure simplicity of it all. 
Its so unworldly nature, its strange force 
And tranquil charm, touched Molly's 3'oung heart deeply ; 
And speaking of it to her friends one night, 
As they returned together from a session 
Where modern ethics was the living theme, — 
Her admiration for our simple faith, 
Oxir mystical religion that can feed 
Man's spirit bounteously, found warm support 
And earnest sympathy from Roger Morland, 
Who framed in few but telling sentences 
What all of that young group so deeply felt. 
* * * 

The Meetings over, Molly said farewell 

To her father, and with Lucy and Delia Hoopes, 

Accompanied by Roger and the rest 

Of those whose homes were near the Brandy wine, 

Fared into beautiful pastoral Chester County 

For a visit with her friends at Birmingham. 

Then David Pryce returned alone, by boat. 
Far up the river, thence by carriage home; 
But not until with Ebenezer Jones 
He had a farewell evening and a meal 
Of barley grits and similar cereals. 
With further talk of good old days together 
At country school; and Ebenezer walked 
To Arch Street wharf and saw him safely off. 


Molly Pryce 

And looking back across tlie gleaming tide, 
High o'er the spires and house-tops, David saw 
Penn's mighty statue keeping eternal watch 
Above the beautiful City-of-Brotherly-Love, 
Till lost in misty distance. Then for hours, 
By barges laden high with hay and wood, 
By sleepy river-toAvns and verdant isles, 
David returned up-stream; then disembarked 
And drove nine miles across the fertile land 
Among old orchards and past opulent fields 
Of wheat and corn, to his own well-loved farm, — 
Pausing in silence at the sad sixth mile 
Where evergreens above his dear wife's grave 
Murmured soft elegies in the constant breeze. 

Meanwhile sweet Molly journeyed with her friends 

Amid green Chester County's beauteous landscapes. 

By oaken glades they drove, whose ancient arms 

Swung low o'er mossy turf, and cast a shade 

Through which the sunlight flickered; past cool streams 

And stream-side fields close cropped by nibbling sheep. 

The robins chirped in gushes of delight 

Among white blossoms ; deep in fragrant grass 

The quiet cattle browsed, where buttercups 

Like golden constellations glowed. They caught 

The scent of lilacs by white cottage gates. 

And gathered wild flowers b}^ the wood's green edge. 

And now as they drew near their journey's end 

Late in the dreamy day, and saw the gleam 

Of the silver Brandj^wine among the hills. 

They all joined voices in a dear old song. 

More loved because our fathers loved it so, — 

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood. 
When fond recollection presents them to view! 

The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood. 
And every loved spot which my infancy knew; 


Molly Pryce 

The wide- spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it. 
The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell; 

The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it. 
And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well, 

The old oaken bucket. 

The iron-bound bucket. 

The moss-covered bucket that hung in the well. 



BEAUTIFUL home of quietude and peace 
The old Hoopes farmstead seemed, high on a hill 
In Birmingham, above the Brandywine. 
Lucy and Delia took their friend around 
About the farm, the orchard and the fields ; 
And Molly admired the old-time garden, bright 
With sweet old-fashioned phlox and mignonette, 
Sweet-marjoram and pinks and hollyhocks 
And London-pride; and in the flower}^ midst 
Was set a dial that admonished all 
To "Mind the Light:' 

She loved the flossy heifers, 
Red Devons, and Alderneys with star-soft eyes 
And coated like young fawns. She loved the brook 
That sparkled down the hillside, winding deep 
Among the ferns and fibrous willow-roots ; 
She loved at eve to hear the father tell, — 
As all the family sat upon the porch 
Gazing across the emerald hills, — the tale, 
How Washington had striven at Birmingham, 
Hard by the quaint old Quaker meeting-house. 
Against the British ; of Lafayette's renown. 
And gallant Anthony Wayne. How strange it seemed. 
That here, where now was peace, and harvest fields 
Spread opulent their ripening grass and grain, — 
Red warfare thundered one September day ! 


Molly Pryce 

But that was long and long ago ; no scene 
Could be more peaceful now, and Molly loved 
The warm green valleys where the cattle browsed 
Beside the Brandywine's smooth-flowing stream ; 
The hillsides rich with clover and wheat and millet 
And silver-green of oats ; and over all 
The might}' clouds that reared their wondrous steeps 
Of snow, and rosy vapor-wreaths more soft 
Than silent dreams. And to herself she sang: 

Here in the country's heart 
Where the grass is green. 
Life is the same sweet life 
As it e'er hath been. 

Trust in a God still lives. 
And the bell at morn 
Floats with a thought of God 
O'er the rising corn. 

God comes down in the rain. 
And the crop grows tall, — 
This is the country faith. 
And the best of all!*' 

No need have I, here at my idyll's end, 
To say that Roger Morland often came 
When work was o'er, and wandered 'mid the flowers 
And by the Brandywine with winsome Molly; 
Or how he told, ere many days were past, 
How she was all in all to him; or how 
• Sweet Molly readily returned his love, — 
For their affection had begun that noon 
Of May at Yearly Meeting. No mere words 
Of mine can tell their deep, deep happiness; 
Nor the delight of all their friends, who saw 
In them a perfect, noble, true-matched pair, — 

*By Norman Gale 


Molly Pryce 

Upright and manly character allied 

To womanly kindliness and nameless charm. 

So ere another Yearly Meeting came 

Sweet Molly Pryce was wed to Roger Morland 

At David Pryce's home among the hills 

Of old liucks County. Beautiful the sight 

That Quaker wedding made, and beautiful 

The words of counsel and of kindly love 

From silvery-haired old Friends whose presence lent 

A benediction. Ne'er was lovelier bride 

Than Molly, drest in quiet dove-like gray, 

Wearing a spray of apple blossoms ; more 

Than one kind eye was wet at thought of how 

Her sweet unconscious grace and gentle charm 

Recalled the grace and charm of her dear mother. 

Among the gifts were Fox's Works in folio, 

From Lucy and Delia Hoopes, who knew how Molly 

Loved olden Quaker books ; and seven cartons 

Of wheaten grits from Ebcnezer Jones 

(Such was his thrift!) ; with many presents more 

From Pryces and from Morlands ; for a host 

Of kindly Friends was there from either side 

To welcome to their folds this blessed pair. 

Who blent in their two staunch old Quaker lines 

The best that Bucks and Chester Counties knew. 


Roger Morland 

Dedicated to 

My WooLMAN House friends, — 

kindly and unforgettable 

In this my unambitious rime 
Fve wandered back into the time 
Our sires and mothers used to know. 
Those artless days of long ago. 
Whose slender records all too brief, — 
In some old letter'' s yelloxved leaf. 
Or sampler quaint, or faded flower 
'Mid olden silks, — tell of the hour. 
The vanished hour, when life was less 
Encompassed round with noise and stress. 

I know not why I love them so. 
The Quaker days of long ago. 
Nor why there lingers such a charm 
Round many a memoried field and farm. 
I only know I wish to try 
And say some word before I die. 
To tell to our more restless day 
The beauty of that far-away 
And happy time they used to know. 
Our sires and mothers — long ago! 

Roger Morland 

VV/^HEN Molly Pryce, the comely Quaker lass 

Of old Bucks County, was in wedlock joined 
With Roger Morland, that tall, vigorous youth 
Who dwelt beside the pastoral Brandywine — 
They blent in their two staunch old Quaker lines 
The best that Bucks and Chester Counties knew. 

Now in their early days as man and wife, 
Roger and Molly Morland wisely planned 
To make extended visits to those parts 
Of the Friendly heritage whereof they knew 
By fair report that they Avould find a welcome 
Cordial and kind; and Roger's dawning gift 
In the ministry made his Meeting glad to send 
A "Minute" recommending these two Friends 
To kind consideration in those parts 
Where they should journey. 

Therefore, setting forth 
One bright June day, Avith "Joe," their faithful horse. 
They fared as far as pleasant Wilmington, 
And sat next day, the Sabbath, with the Friends 
In their old tranquil sunny Meeting-house, 
And heard an ancient minister discourse 
Upon the reconciling power of Love 
As Christ hath taught it — ^Love that shall prevail 
O'er evil in the end ; albeit weak 
And lowly-hearted folk first told the world 
Of Christ's great love and loving sacrifice — 
Peter, and Stephen, and undaunted Paul, 
Long sanctified within the hearts of men, 
But in their oAvn day well content to bear 
The name of fool and dreamer, only so 
They might hand on the legend of Christ's love. 

The gentle women and the kindly men 

Of this loved Meeting gave a cordial welcome 


Roger Morland 

To our dear Morlands, urging them to bide 
Awhile and share the hospitality 
Offered by all; but Roger said his mind 
Was set on reaching Hopewell, far away, 
In goodly season ; so they might not bide 
Beyond next day in pleasant Wilmington. 

That evening, in a quaint old-fashioned home, 

Sweet with unworldly simple human charm, 

And rich in family heirlooms, Molly saw — 

Among the old mahogany and plate. 

The portraits, and the rows of old-time books 

(The "IForArs" of men like Penn and Penington) — 

A faded sampler, worked in red and green 

By "A. K.'s" hand, near ninety years ago. 

The "Extract" touched her with its quaint appeal 

And tender piety; and copying down 

Its solemn couplets, Molly thereby furnished 

For Roger (when he later learnt tiie lines) 

Texts, which he chanced to preach from more than once? 

In after-time. The faded sampler read: 

I fc ^ EXTRACT W 9 \ 

I By Love directed, ^ in Mercy meant, g 

I Are Trials suffered ^ Afflictions sent, M 

= To stem impetuous Passion's furious Tide, B 

H To curb ye Insolence of prosprous Pride, B 

I To zcean from Earth, Sf bid our Wishes soar g 

B To that blest Clime, where Pain shall be no more, m 

1 Where weary'd Virtue shall for refuge fly, H 

( (§* evWy Tear be wip'd from ev'ry Eye. H 


Roger Morland 


r> OGER and Molly, drawn by faithful "Joe," 
Crossed next day into Maryland and drove 
Long leagues through landscapes green, beneath white 

And in the evening found a hearty welcome 
From Hiram and Matilda Brown, who dwelt 
Above wide meadow-lands beside their mill. 

Matilda set before her guests next morn 

A country meal of sausages and tea 

And johnny-cakes and juicy home-cured ham, 

With honey flavored from their own white clover, — 

O how delicious was that country meal ! 

And while they ate, Matilda talked of cooking 

And good old family recipes, and how 

She baked her "pone" so golden-brown, and how 

She hung her hams above the kitchen fire 

To sweeten in the smoke, and how she made 

Her apple-butter spicy-sweet with bits 

Of bark of sassafras. — All this advice 

Did Molly cherish up for future use 

In her own kitchen on the Morland farm. 

And now they rambled out to see how lay 
The land on Hiram and Matilda's "place"; 
How different from theirs — with flocks of sheep 
Nibbling the tender herbage in the meads. 
And rows of bee-hives, and the droning mill 
Beside the swift mill-race. Then Molly went 
To see Matilda's garden, with its rows 
Of hollyhocks and fluttering bright sweet-peas, 
Petunias softly sweet and purple phlox 
And lavender and pungent bergamot, 
And many an old-time herb of sovereign use 
For savor and for salving. Molly begged 
A slip or two of London-pride, to plant 


Roger Morland 

In her own garden by the Brandywine, 
And praised the sunny beauty and the peace 
Of the bright garden-walks. 

And Hiram Brown 
Meanwhile showed Roger round the ancient mill; 
And in the saw-shed 'neath a willow tree 
Close b}' the swift mill-race, they watched a sight — 
One of the most entrancing that I know — 
The great round saw go snoring through the logs 
With riving and sonorous drone, and fading 
Down at the end with melancholy moan, 
While the sweet sawdust odor filled the air. 

Then in the grist-mill, where the heavy beams, 

Festooned with cobwebs full of mealy motes. 

Trembled forever in the steady thresh 

Of the great rumbling water-wheel — the men, 

With shouting voices to o'ercome the din. 

Talked of crop-prospects. Hiram thought the wheat 

Would fetch its price this year, the ^aeld being short ; 

But oats and corn he guessed would "pan out" well. 

If there came rain enough. And Roger said. 

Up where he farmed, they mostly had big rains 

About the time they harvested their oats. 

But corn was fine and staple. "Well," said Hiram, 

"That's just the way with life — the good and bad, 

Full crops and short, are mixt up pretty well, — 

I guess we can't complain !" 

Then going forth, 
They harnessed "Joe," and after a good dinner 
Roger and Molly drove all afternoon 
Toward Hopewell, and at sunset reached the home 
Of the Bennett sisters, kindly loving souls. 
Who'd been at boarding-school with Molly's mother ; 
And now they welcomed and petted the young folks 
And purred around them with sincere delight, 


Roge?^ Morland 

And fed them on fried chicken and hot bread, 
With sweet-sour pickles and conserves and jam 
And layer-cake, and custards drowned in cream; 
And next day started them upon their way 
Laden with flowers and with a dainty lunch 
Packed in a basket made of sea-green reeds. 

V?I7H0 has not visited the Old Dominion 
And known the Friendly hospitality 
Of Fairfax or of Frederick or Loudoun, — 
Has yet before him an experience 
Of joy. And now it was to such a joy 
That Roger Morland and his Molly passed 
As, crossing into that fair southern realm 
Of ancient worth and ancient memories, 
They came one afternoon among the hills 
Of Frederick County, while the sunset light 
Lay softly on the far-off mountain slopes. 
The cows were tinkling homeward; under eaves 
Of barns the swallows twittered; wisps of smoke 
From old red chimneys told of supper hour ; 
The fields were slowly emptied as the men 
Came down the hillsides from the harvesting. 
Bearing their rakes and scythes and water- jugs, 
And cheerily talking. 

Dorothea Lane 
Received our friends that evening in her home 
Amid wide pasture-lands where cattle grazed 
Knee-deep in buttercups ; — a widow she. 
Born in a family of Cavaliers 
Who in old days had served the Stuart cause, 
And from their King received grants of wide lands 
Along the Rappahannock. To them once 
A Quaker preacher coming — stayed by storm 
As in those parts he journeyed — had persuaded 
The daughter to his faith; so she had joined 


Roger Morland 

The Friends, had come to live among them here, 

And wedded with John Lane, a man of worth 

And weight and circumstance, — now dead nine years. 

Her stately home and generous way of life 

Were pleasing to the Morlands, tired with travel, 

And glad to rest in peace beneath the columns 

Of her wide portico, whose mellow brick 

Was flecked with flickering shadows of tall pines 

And box-trees quaintly trimmed. She served them brews 

Home-made and harmless, cooled with clinking ice; 

And delicate desserts whose gracious savor 

She had the secret of in manuscript 

Among her family papers ; ending off 

With peaches, pears, and sweet rose-apricots, 

And plums of purple bloom. 

Roger next day, 
With Molly, and with Dorothea Lane 
Arrayed in rustling silk of soft dove-grey. 
Drove down through winding vales and o'er long hills 
To Hopewell Meeting, where Virginia Friends 
Gathered from near and far to hold a conference: 
Dear, genial, kindly souls from Sandy Spring, 
From Waterford, from pleasant old Woodlawn 
Among the fragrant woods where Washington 
Once dwelt upon his beautiful estate. 
From Lincoln and its neighborhood of farms. 

To tell the many glad and grave delights 
Of those two days, the counsel and advice 
Devoted speakers gave, the social hours 
Enjoyed by friends long parted, the calm strolls 
And talks beneath the trees, the children's fun. 
The shy love-making, — all the hearty speech 
And hearty ways that kindly countr^'-folk 
Who dwell afar from cities, best enjoy — 
Were task be^'ond my pen ; so I shall give 
Report of but one speaker, my young hero, 


Roger Morland 

Whose thoughts and ways I have a liking for. 

Our Roger, tlien, in course of his remarks 

Warmly described, for sake of simile. 

The crops of corn — how, in the Quaker part 

Of Pennsylvania, mile on emerald mile. 

The Avaving corn-fields bless the fertile land 

With rich and fragrant beauty ; how they grow 

Tall and long leaved, and break in yellow bloom, 

And all through August and the early fall 

Delight the farmer's heart, until at last 

The golden ears are garnered in the cribs 

In blithe October, in that happy season 

Of apple-harvest and of golden leaves 

And southward-flying birds. 

"I speak," said he, 
"But what you know, for God hath blest your fields 
With this same crop, our native Indian maize. 
To me it is a symbol of the sotd — 
Ripening in stillness, warmed with Heaven's sun, 
Watered by Heaven's rain, and growing ever 
With hope of heavenly harvest in the end." 


T 'VE read in Molly Morland's diary — 

A little brown old leather book, preserved 
Along with her and Roger's faded letters 
Up in the Morland attic — how the Friends 
In north Virginia entertained our twain 
So long ago. In Molly's delicate script 
There seems an added fragrance in each phrase 
That briefly but so poignantly alludes 
To comforts and delights which were their lot 
During their sojourn. Thus, she noted down 
"Music by moonlight," — "strange old stories told 
By darky mammies," — "slept in valanced beds 
In sheets that smelt of lavender," — "hoe-cake 


Roger Morland 

And uild-blucklK-rrj tart and ^in^cr-brcad," — 
"Hundrod-k'uf roses, Cantcrhurv-bells, 
Dark dalilias, and delicious lieliotropc, 
And rose-geranium," — "O the kind, kind folks 
In Old Virginia!" — Can't you see it all, 
The friendly, pleasant, siin[)le old-time joys 
Of country visits in those happy days ! 

Yea, those were happy golden days indeed 

For our two Pennsylvania visitors 

Among Virginia Friends. The quaint farm-life 

Engaged their interest every day anew, 

With all its gentle stir of crowing fowls 

And bleating sheep, the creak of wagon wheels, 

The grind-stone's rusty wail, the lonely call 

Of crows across the woodlands, and the shouts 

And cheers of romping children. Molly loved 

To wander out among the yards and lanes ; 

She watched the old hens scratch and cluck and scratch 

And call their fluffy cheeping little chicks 

From out the grass ; she saw the murmuring flocks 

Of pigeons sun themselves along the roof 

With ruffling of their rainbow-tinted necks; 

She heard the bob-whites whistling to their mates " 

Across the fields ; she heard the shrill "pot-rack" 

Of guinea-hens ; and in the barn at noon 

Patted the friendly horses as they scraped 

The floor and whinnied for their feed; she loved 

The dreaming dark-eyed cattle, and she loved 

The hum of bees among the hollyhocks, 

The locusts fiddling through the drowsy noons, 

And all the stir and murmur of the farm. 

And Roger, as they rode, I think loved well 
To see the reapers in the wide-spread fields 
Cradling the wheat, and thatching o'er the shocks 
Against the storms ; to watch the men and boys 


Roger Morland 

In breezy upland meadows piling hay 
Down the long windrows, and the toppling loads 
Swaying and rumbling down green lanes and o'er 
The old barn bridges to the odorous mows. 

But most, I think, they felt the forest's magic : 

How wonderful the woods through which they drove 

In the long afternoons ! — tall oak and ash, 

The straight clean tulip-trees, the sycamores 

Dappled with sunlight at the wild-wood edge, 

The shadowy aromatic evergreens, 

And delicate ghost-grey beeches round whose roots 

Clustered soft mosses, and the emerald slopes 

Of ferns so wildly fragrant. Oft they paused. 

And, while "Joe" cropped the herbage on the banks, 

They heard the happy wood-thrush fluting far 

In deep mid-wood his golden notes of joy. 

Or watched the little clouds of butterflies 

Hover and veer above the roadside weeds. 

Oft-times would Roger gather columbines 

And other graceful blooms that blossomed wild 

Beside the way, for well did Molly love 

Their shy and sylvan charm. — O there amid 

The deep green quiet of the woodland world 

They felt the Father's love like precious balm 

Flow round their hearts: to them the forest seemed 

Nature's cathedral, columned with great boles 

Down disappearing vistas dim as dreams. 

And hung with tapestry of green and gold. 

Where day-long litanies and psalms are sung 

By feathered choirs high in the pale-gold lights 

That sift through leafy windows of the wood. 


A T Jerry Carter's farm near Waterford 

They found their friends were busy with the threshing ; 
So Molly rolled up sleeves and cheerily sought 


Roge?" Morland 

To help Jane Carter and her daui^htcrs bake 
And boil the dinner for the thresher men. 
Puddings and pies and raisin-cake and cheese, 
Tea strong as Saul and pickles sour as whig, 
"Slip-and-go-down" and sweet moist gingerbread, — 
She helped prepare with zest. 

Out in the barn, 
To Jerry's delight, young Roger doffed his coat 
And took a hand at feeding the machine. 
Amid the droning rattle and long snarl 
Of the swift-whirling thresher, Roger stood. 
Untied the sheaves and shoved the straw far in 
Till it was snatched and swallowed, while the wheat 
Gushed forth in steady flow down at the side. 
Where Jerry measured it in bushel bags, 
And ever beamed his joy the while he measured. 
Or watched the tangled straw and chaff float out 
The high loft-door. 

He beamed upon his men 
And on his patient horses as they trod 
The horse-power's moving slope; for Jerry Carter 
Beamed upon all, — his family, his friends. 
His farm, his neighbors, even his enemies 
(If such there were) ; — one of those sunny souls 
That finds this good old world a paradise. 
And specially he beamed at harvest-time, 
And on the threshing; and to-day he beamed 
On Roger and Molly, and would have them stay 
A week or two ; and this his friendly urgence 
Was seconded by Jane and all their six, 
Susy and Dora, Tom and "Little Jane," 
Bill}' and Betsy L. 

The Morlands jdelded 
In part, and gladh' visited these friends 
For near a week, and joined in all the work 
And merriment upon the Carter farm, — 


Roger Morland 

Long days of happiness that made a memory 
Of warm Virginia hospitality ; 
Yea, Roger and Moll}' often would recall 
Their farewell to the Carters, when the}^ saw, 
As down the long oak-shaded lane they drove, 
Kind Jerry beaming on them from his porch 
Among the honey-suckles, with his Jane 
And all their six, Sus}', Dora, and Tom, 
And "Little Jane" and Billy and Betsy L. 

And now they journeyed to a gathering 

Of Friends in Fairfax County, the last place 

And nigh the pleasantest, of all they saw 

During their Friendly tour in Old Virginia, 

The kindly hearts of those dear Fairfax folk 

Gleamed in their faces ; thoughtful lonely hours 

Among the fields and in green garden walks 

Had given to the men a pensive look 

And to the women such a wistful charm 

As tells of inward strength. The younger folk. 

Rosy and hearty with fresh country air. 

Were fair as flowers new-washed in morning dew; 

And in the social hours, at picnic lunch, 

And at the golden end of afternoon, 

The charm and friendliness of those kind folk 

Flowed out in sunny talk and gentle fun. 

Among the northern Friends assembled there 

Was Ebenezer Jones ; and Molly smiled 

To find him, as she thought to, — highly pleased 

With Old Virginia's hospitality. 

Free board, free bed, free rides, free everything 

(For Ebenezer was a thrifty Friend!) ; 

And after meetings, when the farmer Friends 

Were genial-kind, old Ebenezer found 

Them "easy marks," and willing to rebate 

One-half-a-cent a hundred on the oats 


Roger Morland 

And wheat which he would purchase for his store ; — 
So shrewd and keen was he for "getting on," 
This enterprising Quaker from the north! 

The gathering ended with an hour of worship 

Beneath the trees ; and Roger felt the call 

To speak unto assembled Friends some words 

About his quiet faith. "O, friends," said he, 

"The great world presses on us from all sides, 

And we must mingle with it ; we must share 

Its burdens, take the sunshine and the storm 

With patience ever ; yet not be content 

With this world's standards ; for there gleams a light, 

A joy and glory for the soul that sees 

Beyond these worldly Avails. O let us seek 

And find, Dear Hearts, this glorious light and jo}'. 

It will sustain us through the long day's heat, 

And bring us to the peaceful cool of night 

With tranquil power. 

"How may we find the way.'' 
I well believe that in simplicity. 
In cheerfulness, in studied happiness. 
We find it ; in the eyes of kindly friends ; 
In gentle deeds ; in counsel of our comrades 
Along the road, their loving sympathy 
And friendliness ; in Nature's faery charm. 
Her wondrous panoramas round us spread 
For our delight — orchard and grove and field. 
And stately trees, and shining streams that flow 
By daisied meadows, and the mighty clouds 
Floating across the heavens like dream-ships 
Upon that azure ocean. None of these. 
But has its message and its ministry 
To hearts that hunger for the beautiful, — 
The pure, — the true." 

In words like these did Roger 
Give to his auditors his quiet faith; 


Roger Mori and 

And at the close he spoke these moving verses :* — 

God spake to me in the sunset as the day a-dying lay. 
And over the hills from the eastward crept the mantling 

mist of gray, — 
In the sunset's radiant flashes, ere the soft approach of 

Turned its splendor into ashes as the last pale rays took 


Standing alone by the casement, bathed in the afterglow. 
Into my soid slipped gladness, out of my heart crept woe: 
As the twilight shadows lengthened, and the evening star 

low burned. 
My faith in good was strengthened, and my thoughts 

toward God were turned. 

The world with its cares forgotten; stripped of its doubts 

my soul, — 
A sense of infinite calmness into my bosom stole. 
"Fear not, I am with thee always," came a Voice from out 

the deep, 
"To the end of the world I am with thee; be still," it said, 

"and sleep." 


to be at home in the end, the end, 

O to be at home when the long day dies; 

Home, — home where the green roads bend 

Round the path that runs to the rainbow skies. 

Home once more in the quiet peace of things. 

Soft beneath the music that a loved lip sings! 

— Madison Cawein 

A^7H0 does not dream of home when far away, 

Yearning for all the dear familiar scenes 
Deep-fraught with old remembrance ! Thus they dreamed, 
Our travelers, as the golden weeks went by. 

*"Immanuel," by Paul Harris Drake 


Roger Morland 

Then Molly gathered sweet forget-me-nots 
And musky pinks, along the garden walks 
In the last home they visited ; and forth 
They fared, and took the river-boat — with "Joe" 
Safe quartered on the lower deck — and sailed 
For Baltimore. Throughout the summer day 
And all the silver moonlit night, they sailed 
Adown the wide Potomac's tranquil flood 
That winds by woodlands green, and wider grows 
With each bright tributary stream that blends 
Its shining currents with that tranquil flood, 
And seeks the briny sea. 

High on the shore 
Of sylvan Fairfax County they beheld, 
Our happy pilgrims, that old stately House, 
Unmatchable, immortal in its charm, 
Amid its emerald lawns and lofty trees — 
Mount Vernon — beautiful with memories 
And wrapt around with calm and peace profound. 
— There on the hillside of his green estate 
Sleeps Washington; and though the "busie worlde" 
Has made some progress since his far-off day, 
It still turns back and comes with reverent love 
To ponder at his home, and soothe its heart 
With contemplation and with reverie 
Among those garden walks and ancient shades. 

Along the banks full many a pleasant scene 

They watched — the farm-folk thronging to the wharves 

With loads of produce; village vagabonds, 

Too tired to stand, drooping o'er sugar-barrels ; 

Late-coming wagons hurrying to the shore 

With lad or lass embarking 'mid the tears 

Of loving home-folks, and all laden down 

With flowers and fruit and cakes to cheer their voyage. 

They heard the plaintive, weird old melodies 

Of darky deck-hands, wheeling up and down 


Roger Mori and 

Their trucks of freight with happy care-free air 
And comic "cake-walk" rhythms full of grace. 

In many a bay they saw the vestiges — 
Romantic in their picturesque decay — 
Of old estates, beside whose river-walls 
The great square-riggers lay in olden times, 
Freighted with treacle and with limes and lemons, 
Mahogany and silks and silverware. 
With muscovado sugar, and choice books 
From "London Towne" (tall folios wherein 
Virginia gentlemen would ponder o'er 
The rosy songs of Herrick or the Plays 
Of Shakespeare). 

Near the dreamy sunset hour, 
When pearly clouds swam down the mellow sky 
Above the deep, mysterious, silent woods, — 
The good boat slowly passed into a bay 
Embowered with graceful elms and bordered round 
By farms whose fields all wore an ancient look 
As if long-settled, rich in memories. 
And beautiful with pastoral charm ; and here 
At old Saint Mary's Church, in Maryland — 
Where Calvert came three centuries ago — 
The captain stopped his boat, that all might hear 
The vesper-service in the ancient church; 
And passing through the ivy-mantled portals, 
Roger and Molly heard the noble h^mns 
And solemn service of the Mother-Church, 
Those venerated rites that touch the soul 
With all their antique beauty. 

Then again 
The boat sailed forth, bright as some pure white swan, 
Upon the sleepy stream ; and through long hours 
Our well-loved Morlands watched the summer moon 
Color the river with her silver fire, 
While 'mid the dark wild forests on the shore 


Roger Morland 

Tlie whip-poor-wills chanted in rhythmic chorus 
And filled the night with magic. On the deck 
In happy reminiscent mood they talked, 
Roger and Moll}-, of their full, rich weeks 
Among Virginia Friends (while tasting oft 
Red apples, heaped for them by Susy Carter 
In the sea-green basket of the Bennett sisters). 

Of Hiram and Matilda Brown they talked, 
Those kindly friends beside their droning mill 
And sunny garden bright with herbs and flowers ; 
Of Dorothea Lane, whose gracious welcome 
And ample way of life had touched their hearts 
With pleasure, mingled with a wistful sense 
Of glory vanished from the fair domain 
Of Cavalier Virginia. 

Long they talked 
Of Hopewell Meeting and the hearty folk 
From all the Quaker regions, who had made 
Indelible impressions, on the Morlands, 
Of fine simplicity and kindliness 
And warmth sincere; and they beheld again. 
In recollection, all the Carter clan 
Beaming farewell among the honey-suckles 
Of their wide portico. And as the moon 
Paled in the west, and lonely ships crept by, 
Like spirit vessels on a spirit sea — 
They breathed a prayer of fervent thankfulness 
For their rich memories. 

Are they not made up, 
Our life's most precious moments, from such memories- 
Thronging like ghosts from out the golden Past — 
Of hours made dear with friendship and with love 
And gentle kindliness.'* Yea, that one line 
In Molly's diary, "0, the kind, kind folks 
In Old Virginia!" poignantly sums up, 


'John Comly's Journal 

In tender words straight from her tender heart, 
The beauty of an almost vanislied day 
Of friendly, pleasant, simple old-time joys. 

•* * * * 

Though another age is otirs. 
Let us cherish still the flowers 
And the loved vicmorials old. 
Of the Quaker age of gold; 
Cherish still the tranquil mind. 
Loving heart, and friendships hind. 

These are fair and fadeless flowers; 
Heaven help us keep them ours. 
Help us walk the simpler way, — • 
As in "RoGKii Mou land's" day. 


PRESIDE the lonely ancient meeting-house. 

Beneath the peaceful sunshine and the snow, 
Wrapt in enduring calm, lies the great heart 
That beat so mightily long years ago, 


A S pictured in his "Snow-Bound" still it stands, 

Tranquil and hallowed by the passing years, — 
But he who loved it deeply, he is gone; 
Ah me, the thought doth touch the heart to tears ! 


A SAINTLY man hath here revealed his soul ; 

Simplicity and goodness mark each page. 
Here one may leave our restless day awhile 
And live in Comly's sweet and sober age. 


Old Chester County 

Dedicated to the Old Friends 
AND THE Old Memories 

What child of Chester County doth not love 
Her fields and woods all other lands above, 
What child of Chester County doth not see 
Those fields and woods in tender memory 
When from his well-loved home-land far away 
He feels the charm of childhood's golden day ! 


{West Chester) 

nnnE fields and roads around the dear home town, 

Rich in their old-time charm I find them still: — 
"The Barrens" whose grey rocks and grasses brown 

Seem weird as on some Irish fairy-hill; 
The Oakbourne woods along whose leafy side 

The squirrels frolic by the quiet stream 
Where late I saw October's mystic tide 

Bathe that sweet valley in a golden dream; 
The Bradford slopes where feed white flocks of sheep. 

And cattle in cool orchard-shadows rest, 
While far on high great cloudlands soft as sleep 

Slow drift and melt along the purple west. — 
Dear are they all, but dearer none, I think, 
Than those green fields by Brandy wine's soft brink. 

Avocd s Stream 


A LINE of lovely silver 

Winds down Avoca's vale ; 
Who knoweth not each meadow 
And every willowy dale? 

The bells of old West Chester 
Ring down across the hill, 

And soft the music echoes 
Along this country rill. 

Through lonely Goshen woodlands 
Where matted mosses grow, 

'Mid sassafras and alders 
Its waters trickle slow. 

Where earliest spring-beauties 
And pale windflowers will stand. 

Its happy currents shimmer 
O'er many a fairy strand. 

Across the tawny uplands 
Where lies the winter wheat, 

And thro' the yellow twilight 
The field-larks whistle sweet, — 

Soft flows the elfin river, 

A molten silver line, 
To meet in far-off meadows 

The sleepy Brandy wine. 

From glades remote, sequestered. 
From orchards calm and still. 

From golden-sunny marshes 
Below the purple hill, — 

I hear its silver singing 

Across my wintry dream ; — 

I must go rove beside it. 

That little homeland stream ! 


Centennial Ode 


{Read at the Hundredth Anniversary of the Borough of 
West Chester, October 11, 1899) 

I_I ERE in the golden waning of the year, 

When vale and wood are wrapped in drowsy peace, 
And languid vapors dim the distant hill. 
When from his toil the farmer finds surcease. 
And 'mid the orchard's shadows cool and still 
The robin twitters clear, — 
We come from clangorous cities far away, 
From quiet villages, from peaceful farms, 
Long wandering children to the Mother's arms. 
Here at the tranquil ending of her Century gray. 

It is a precious and a touching hour. 

An hour of mingled happiness and tears ; 

We stand to-day and see a Century's close. 
From out the silence of those hundred years 

Comes, like the fragrance of a faded rose. 
Old Memory's subtle power. 
The Future looms before us dim and vast ; 

With prayerful hopes we face a Century's dawn. 

With fond regret we mourn a Century gone; 
This sacred moment links the Future with the Past. 

Let joyous music greet this stately day, 
Let oratory play its noble part. 

While happy children with united voice 
Uplift hifirh harmonies that touch the heart ; 

Let all the grateful multitude rejoice; 
Let tears their tribute pay. 
The glory that we feel, the dear regret. 

Must make of this a memorable hour; 

We yield unto its pathos and its power; 
The joy of this Centennial Day let none forget! 


Centennial Ode 

How strange it seems, and quaint, and far away, 
The little hamlet by the old cross-roads ! — 

The log-built school ; the ancient inn, "Turk's Head" ; 
The humble, low-roofed houses, the abodes 
Of sturdy village worthies born and bred 
Beneath King George's sway. 
Remote and dim as half-forgotten dreams 
It fades into the legendary Past ; 
A glamour and a spell are round it cast ; 
So strange, — so strange and quaint and far away it 
seems ! 

West Chester lies historic regions near ; 

From yonder hills she heard the thunders roll 

Where surged and seethed all day the fiery flood. 
Where that young champion pure and high of soul. 

The knightly Lafayette, gave of his blood. 
And in a later year 
These streets were filled with clamor and acclaim 

When that great son of France stood here once more, 

Rehearsed the battle and each scene of yore. 
And left behind the splendor of a deathless name ! 

West Chester's founders lie in peaceful sleep. 
Her worthies rest beneath the ivied grass ; 

Across their graves the sweet wild roses run 
And give their balm to all the winds that pass. 

Long silent are those gray heads every one, 
But still their children keep 
Their honest wisdom and their virtues strong; 

And much that beautified those quiet lives 

In gracious souls among us still survives. 
Like fine and far-borne echoes of an ancient song. 

Here by the green heart of the countryside, 
Close to the pleasant dales and wooded hills 

That border on the beauteous Brandywine, — 
Sweet stream that "dallies with its hundred mills," — 


Centennial Ode 

By meadow-lands whore browse the placid kine, 
And calm and peace abide, — 
Our sires strayed not from Motiier Nature's arms, 
Lost not their contact with the wholesome earth 
Where sterling virtues ever have their birth; 
Fresh strength they drew froni these encircling fields 
and farms. 

In those old times of cherished memory 

Along these quiet streets the forms were seen 

Of many a gifted, many a gracious one : 
Here often passed with wise and pensive mien 
The Nestor of our science, Darlington ; 
And from the polar sea 
Came he whose white-haired sire is with us yet ; 
Here cultured Miner dwelt, and honored Bell, 
And Worthington, and Haines ; — thou knew'st them 
Old Town ; their precious names we may not soon forget ! 

Nor were there wanting in a later day 

Those who by gifts and culture stood apart, — 

The sturdy Lewis, of a learned line; 
The courtly poet-scholar Everhart; 

Good Father John, the widely-loved divine; 
And noble-hearted May, 
Grave old-time gentleman of life serene; 

Hickman, the brilliant and the eloquent ; 

Futhey, in whom the law and letters blent ; 
And Townsend, he of thoughtful brow and gentle mien. 

And here our Chester County poets came, 

Twin stars of song and brothers of the lyre, — 
Taylor and Read. They roam no more, alas. 
In Old-World paths, nor chant with lyric fire ! 
One sleeps beneath the quiet Longwood grass ; 
Old Kennett keeps his fame. 
And sacred are the groves of Cedarcroft. 


Centennial Ode 

Nor less endeared is Read, whose passionate heart 
Found two-fold voice in poetry and art 
Rich as liis native Chester Valley deep and soft. 

These we remember well, and many more ; 
In memory's vision once again they rise 

To speak the glory of departed hours. 
We gaze about us here with misty eyes, 

For like the odor of immortal flowers 
On some enchanted shore, 
The fragrance of the Past is strong to-day ; 

Old voices call across the vanished 3'ears, 

Old faces rise through consecrating tears. 
Old names resound from out the bygone hours and gray ! 

And now while Autumn spreads her gorgeous tide 
Across old Chester County's happy vales, 

Beside our stream of beauty, Brandywine, 
And each green township's fertile meads and dales ; 

While soft October suns serenely shine 
O'er Chester Valley wide, 
Let us, the children of this peaceful shire, 

And heritors of this beloved old Town, 

With consecrating rites the Century crown, 
With ceremony high and song of stately choir! 

O let us not forget our noble Past, 

Nor lose our fathers' virtues strong and true, 

Heirs as we are of old simplicity! 
Let us go forth to meet the Century new. 

Remembering this solemn jubilee 

While life's sweet days shall last! 
And this high hour we ever consecrate 

With reverent hearts, unto our God above 

Who rules with His all-Avisdom and His love 
Each happy home of man, each commonwealth and state. 


Purple Phlox 


Set to music by Dr. J. Max Mueller 

(Sung hy the school children of West Chester on the same 


^~\JjT> Chester County rests in silence golden, 

Her peaceful fields have seen the harvest home; 
The fruits are garnered and the year is olden, 

The woodlands wide are bathed in crimson foam. 
As Autumn's wealth bestows an added glory 

And consecration on the ripened year, 
So in the closing of thy Century hoary 

Our love for thee, old Town, grows doubly dear ! 

From many a home we come with fond aJffection 

To dedicate thine ancient name anew. 
Across the years with loving recollection 

To hail the founders whom thy springtide knew. 
Beneath the quiet turf they long are dreaming, 

Those sires who builded that we might enjoy; 
O may we keep their memories brightly beaming, 

Our heritage preserve without alloy ! 

To God who in His overflowing bounty 

Hath blessed our beauteous hills and fertile dells, — 
The fields and farmsteads of old Chester County, — 

Our tide of stately music upward swells. 
To Him who gives this hour of consecration 

Here in the golden, glad October days. 
Whose love enfolds each peaceful generation. 

Our voices thousandfold arise in praise! 


nPHE golden calm of early autumn hours 

Is sweeter made by these sweet old-time flowers. 
Brightening the air with softly splendid glow, — 
No fairer blooms West Chester gardens know. 


An Old-Fj7iglish Pageant 


{^At the Normal School) 

rj^AR from the world we seemed on that June afternoon 

all idvllic, 
Far from tlio rumble of mills and the wearisome jangle 

of commerce, 
Deep in the tranquil glades of remote and Arcadian 

"Father, is it all real?" asked my little daughter beside 

As down the sunny sward and under the dreamy shadows 
Slovv^ paced a stately procession out of the Middle Ages. 
"Ah, little girlie," I said, "we are back for an hour in 

Old England, 
And there come Robin Hood and liis green-clad folk of 

the forest !" 
O what a vision it was, as merrily sauntered before us 
A troop of story-book people and heroes of old beloved 

ballads ! 
High on her throne sat the Queen of the Golden Age of 

Old England, — 
Elizabeth, — jewelled, petite, the charming queen of the 

Surrounded by lovely ladies and gallants in silk and in 

velvet ; 
Under the trees they sat amid the spears and the banners 
As the stately and gorgeous pageant paused and paraded 

before them. 
While melodies drowsy and sweet and enchanting came 

forth from the forest. 

With music and dancing quaint and the singing of 

centuried carols 
Trooping came the maskers, presenting from history and 

The early, far-off dtiys of the glorious great English 

People, — 


An OIfi-R?i'/Iis/i Pa<rea?it 

A houry Druid priest with maidens deckt for the altar; 
IJoadicea, the ancient queen, with her warrior women. 
McrHn came, grey wizard, companioned by Vivian the 

Guinevere, Arthur's queen, and Astolat's lily-fair maiden. 

Ah, deliglitful, indeed, to see that splendid old ballad, 
"The Nut-lirown Maid," acted out before us there in the 

The banished man and the winsome damsel sweetly 

Of constancy and of love, and plighting their troth in 

the forest ! 
Sir Walter Raleigh stepped forth, the elegant courtier 

and sailor. 
Leading the brown Pocahontas to kneel at the throne of 

his monarch, 
With Indian girls in their train bringing corn and 

fragrant tobacco. 
Yielding them to the Virgin Queen from the vales of 


Pensive scholars came from old-world Oxford and 

Cambridge, — 
Immortal homes of Poetry, Music, and every high 

And homes of poets themselves, great Milton and 

Wordsworth and Shelley. 
Following these grave clerks came milkmaids from 

Devonshire dairies. 
And sweetly danced in the sun to soft and melodious 

Ah, how our hearts were rapt as we watched them 

gracefully dancing. 
Rosy and happy and free, on the exquisite green of the 

meadow ! 


G?^eat Compa?iions 

Then came Bottom the Weaver and his troop of jolly 

Soon to enact the drollest of all Shakespearean farces. 
Very delicious was Bottom, and dainty and dear was 

And very bonny and cute was Puck, the mischievous 

fairy ! 

One after one they passed, and bowed, and went into the 

Lost again in the misty Past that had oped for the 

And given a glimpse of enchantment to hungry hearts 

that were longing 
For the charm and beautiful peace of the days of Merrie 

Old England. 

Back to the noisy world we went from that pageant 

Back from the magical forest and people of story and 

Back to the rumble of mills and the hurry and jangle of 

Far from the tranquil glades of remote and Arcadian 



{To the Normal School Students) 

T MAY not tell the envy 

Wherewith I look on you 
Whose foreheads feel the balmy touch 
Of life's sweet morning dew. 

O might I once more wander 
The paths of golden youth, 
How fondly would I follow fast 
The master minds of Truth ! 


Great Companions 

Think of the fjreat companions 
Who wait by your abode 
To point for your aspiring eyes 
Tlie splendid sliining road ! 

There Dante in the distance 

Readies a friendly hand 

To guide your wandering footsteps down 

Through his strange sombre land. 

There Emerson and Plato 

Will break for you the seal 

That sets your dreaming spirits free 

For God's divine Ideal. 

And there is kindly Horace 

With deathless roses crowned, 

To bid you greet with blithe content 

This life's uncertain round. 

There Mendelssohn with music 
And Burns with human tears 
Will lend a magic wistfulness 
To sweeten all your years. 

The holy peace of Wordsworth, 
High-hearted Shelley's fire, 
Can fill the soul with melody 
And hope and pure desire; 

Dear Virgil's gracious sadness 

And Omar's pensive charm 

INIake strong the heart's imperial home 

'Gainst Mammon's cheap alarm. 

For if unto these masters 
Ye give allegiance true, 
The shadows and the ills of life 
Will lightly fall on you. 


The Harvest 

Eager niul lovel^y spirits 

Who trod this mortal way, — 

Still do they speak with voice divine 

From heaven's eternal day. 

Their friendship is a virtue 
To lift the seadfast soul 
Above the seas of connnonplace 
That round us endless roll. 

Then let their wondrous friendship 
Inspire vour fjolden youth 
And turn your hearts foreverniore 
To Beauty and to Truth! 


{In honor of Dr. and Mrs. G. M. P.) 

TA7E know not, when we plant the seed, 

What growth shall come in years to be,- 
When lo, some morn in far-off days 
Behold the fair and splendid tree ! 

Faith nourishes the striving soul 

As God's sweet sunshine warms the seed, 

And men enjoy the fruitage rich 
Of lofty dream and noble deed. 

O happy lot, to bring the light 

Of Wisdom and of Shining Truth! 

O happy lot, to win the love 

Of multitudes of ardent youth! 

Then gratitude be ours to-day 

To Him who guidcth these dear friends 
And through the rich and toiling years 

Hath shaped them ever to His ends. 


Winter i7i Old Chester County 


f~\\A) Chester County's well-loved hills and lier woods 

and winding streams 
Arc lulled to rest by the winter winds and locked in winter 

dreams ; 
A world of pure and gleaming white, — I love to think of 

her so, 
The dear home-land, the quaint old shire, enwrapt in the 

silent snow. 
And out on the wandering, winding stream, our pastoral 

Where the sleepy August angler sat and dozed by his 

drooping line, 
The skaters glide with shout and song in the. silvered 

moonlit night, 
By leafless willow and fragrant fir, and O 'tis a merry 

sight ! 
And I can see the wood-fire's breath from many a chimney 

And melt into the filmy blue that sleeps along the skies, 
And watch in the silent afternoon the sunset's dying flame 
Fire all the western woods with light too beautiful to 

The spice and tang of the frosty air, the hoot of the 

wizard owl, 
The far-away bark of the lonely fox and the watch-dog's 

mournful howl. 
Our twilight walk by the desolate woods and over the 

windy hill. 
And the rabbit-tracks we found in the glade, — O I can 

recall them still ! 

And then to think of the peace and joy through the frosty 
evening long, 

'■ The fireside talk and the merry tales and the bursts of 
sweet old song, 


Jf^inter in Old Chester County 

And the bonnie children romping there in the ingle's ruddy 

glow, — 
The thought of it wakens remembrances of the old years 

long ago ! 
O, I sometimes think that in all this world, no spot is so 

As the roaring hearth of an old farm-house on a windy 

winter night; 
And memory holds no happier gleams for grown-up girls 

and boys 
Than the country fun and the country fare and the 

wholesome country joys. 

And down in the old-time village stores I can hear them 

talk by the hour 
Of cattle and crops and politics and the price of hay 

and flour. 
"Them fellers up to Harrisburg," they'll say, "is a 

precious lot; 
And some of 'em's, mebbe, the farmer's friend, and some 

of 'em is not." 
"They make me think," says Fishing Jo, "of the bass I 

seen last June, 
The biggest bass I'd ever ketched, — ef I hadn't pulled up 

too soon. 
Well, sirs, them Legislachur chaps sometimes reminds me 

of him, — 
The promises is mighty big, but the fruit is mighty slim !" 
Then Sad-eyed Sam will up and say, "Dogged ef our little 

Ain't learnt more stuff down there to school than ever 

was learnt their dads. 
I tell you, boys, the teachin' now ain't like it used to be 
When we learned to measure by rule of thumb and reckon 

by Rule of Three." 


Winter in Old Chester County 

Well, underneath such homely talk a vein of philosophy 

lies ; — 
Not always do the bookish folks attain to wisdom's prize. 
At the village store and the blacksmith shop the truth is 

often found, 
For like the sweet field-lark she loves to dwell on lowly 


* * * 

Then the Christmas dance in the wide low rooms, and the 

throb of rhj'thmic feet; — 
I can hear the laugh of honest lads and gracious maidens 

sweet ; 
And memor3''s ear is ringing yet with many a mellow tune 
From the violin and the languid flute and the reedy-voiced 

And whenever I hear the lilt and fall of a sweetly plaintive 

A vision comes back of a holly-decked hall and the country 

dancers there. 
Of song and mirth and merry cheer that wistful music 

And of jocund sleigh-loads going home behind the jangling 

And then to dream while the wailing wind is loud in the 

gusty eaves, 
AMien the old house rocks, and the lonely pine by the 

doorway sobs and grieves, 
And ghostly voices seem to call across the mournful blast, 
And shadowy figures flood our dreams from the half- 
forgotten Past. 
'Tis then strange memories haunt the dark, and out of 

the long ago 
Phantasmal forms in weird array flit eerily to and fro ; 
And the passion and yearnings of years long dead stand 

forth in the misty light 
And people with pensive visions the gloom of the deep 

December night. 


A Year Ago 

And then in the flush of the rosy dawn, when the storm 
has overblown, 

And our wistful dreams have faded far with the night- 
wind's dying moan, — 

How merrily over the snowy hills the morning music 

Where the hunters follow the jocund chase behind the 
baying hounds ! 

* * * 

Out in the Chester County hills, ah that is the place to be. 
Where hearts are kind and hearths are warm and the 

winter winds blow free; 
Old memory holds no happier gleams for grown-up girls 

and boys 
Than the country fun and the country fare and the 

wholesome country joys. 
— And here at the vanishing year's white end my musing 

fancy frames 
A dream of the townships quaint with their Welsh and 

English and Indian names. 
And I send my random rhymes to a friend whose happy 

memories go 
Back to his boyhood at London Grove seventy years ago. 

{To J. T.) 


{In memory of Jonathan Travilla, of West Chester) 

A YEAR ago he passed beyond our ken 

He of the silvery hair and heart of gold, 
Who kept, — despite his nearly ninety years, — 
So fresh a spirit, that he scarce seemed old. 

I love to think of him, our kindly friend, 
In that old, well-loved borough of my birth. 

In S3'mpathy of heart so warm and true, 
Sharing alike our sorrows and our mirth, 


yosiah IV, Tweeds 

We shall remember him through all our days, 
We of the 3'ounger line who loved him so, — 

The genial, tender-hearted, dear old friend, 
Who passed to heavenly peace a year ago. 


nnOO seldom have we on this earth 

A man of modesty and Avorth, 
Of simple life and kindly deeds. 
Like gentle-souled Josiah Leeds. 

A plain and quiet man was he 
Of honor and integrity. 
Who high of courage walked life's road, 
Yet grieved and saddened by the load 
Of human sinfulness he saw 
Obscuring heaven's righteous law. 
O then how fearlessly he fought, — 
By his own faithful conscience taught, 
And guided as by heavenly light, — 
For justice, purity and right! 

Now may our youth, remembering still 
His faithful labors, strive to fill 
The public conscience with a zeal 
And passion for his great ideal ; 
Then of this Friend it may be said, — 
He sowed the seed from which has spread 
And endless growth of righteousness 
To lift and purify and bless. 

So shall the memory endure, 
So strongly founded and so sure. 
Of him, the quiet Quaker knight. 
Who led a just and blameless fight, — 
The man of truth and kindly deeds. 
The gentle-souled Josiah Leeds. 


Wawassan s Bright Stream 



HEARD in minster aisles to-day 
Rich voices chanting hymns divine, 
Yet through it all I heard the songs 
Of children by the Brandywine. 

I watched the lordly Hudson flow, 
As stately as the storied Rhine, 

Yet wished I might be wandering 
Beside the peaceful Brandywine.- 

'Mid crowded mart and dusty street 

A vision beautiful was mine — 
A dream of children wreathing flowers 

In gardens by the Brandywine. 


{Air: "The Old Oaken Bucket") 

nPHROUGH old Chester County it winds and it wanders, 

With whispering song and with silvery gleam; 
It winds through the woodlands and buttercup meadows, 

The pride of our County, — Wawassan's bright stream. 
By highlands historic where battle once echoed 

It moves in the shadows majestic and deep, 
And plaintively murmurs a dirge for the heroes 

Who high on the hillside eternally sleep ; 
Beloved Wawassan, poetic Wawassan, 
That flows by the hill of the heroes' long sleep. 

It laves the green margin of many a township 

And dances o'er shallows all silvery-bright; 
It echoes the laughter of light-hearted children 

Who merrily romp by its shores with delight. 
It foams and it falls over dark rumbling mill-wheels, 

It floats beneath bridges all mossy and gray. 
It dreams in the sunshine through beautiful valleys 

Where farmers are gleaning their harvests of hay: 

308 Ago in Boyhood 

Beloved Wawassan, delightful Wawassan, 

That flows by the fields with their harvests of hay. 

B}^ old garden walls where the lilacs lean over 

And roses are red in the sunlight of June, 
B3' orchards where apples and peaches are mellow, 

Wawassan goes chanting its beautiful tune; 
By grey country homes where through long generations 

'Twas loved with devotion enduring and dear ; — 
And we who remember have cherished from childhood 

The charm of Wawassan thro' each golden year : 
Beloved Wawassan, enchanting Wawassan, 
Whose charm we have cherished thro' each golden year. 

(Inscribed to Louise Homer) 


T ONG ago in boyhood — what memories are mine, 

Coming home from swimming in the bonny Brandy- 
All our muscles still a-tingle from the silvery shock. 
Still a-tingle from the plunge off old "Blue Rock"; 
Coming thro' the meadows and o'er the grassy ridge, 
Looking back to see the dear old stream at Jefferis' 

Bridge ; 
Are there any memories from boyhood half so fine — 
Coming home from swimming in the bonny Brandywine ! 

Fairer fields for boyhood's eyes never yet were seen, 
Coming home at twilight thro' meadows soft and green, 
Coming tired and happy in the golden sunset hour, 
Pausing oft for apples or to pluck a gypsy flower, 
Pausing oft beside the wood to hear the warble sweet 
Of meadow-larks and bobolinks above the waving wheat. 
How those happy holidays in recollections shine — 
Coming home from swimming in the dear old Brandj'wine ! 


The Grave of Bayard Taylor 



T3 Y Kennett's hills be sleeps apart, 
Deukalion, our hero-heart; 

The rustic silence soft and deep 
Encompasses his solemn sleep; 

With tenderest grace the violets grow 
In thought of him who lies below; 

Gently the bowering branches shed 
Their leaves above his laureled head. 

All round the dreamy country lies, 
That seemed so blissful in his eyes, 

The lovely, soft idyllic views, 
Made yet more lovely by his muse, 

The farmsteads and the pastoral vales, 
That live forever in his tales. 

None better loved these vallej^s fair, 
None better loved his native air ; 

So when his earthly task was done, 
And Kennett lost her noblest son, 

They bore him o'er the ocean foam 
To sleep anear his boyhood's home. 

Lulled by the song of country rills 
He sleeps apart by Kennett's hills. 

By Kennett's hills he sleeps apart, 
Deukalion, our hero-heart. 



Old Chest 67^ County' s Townships 


/^ HOW they fill our happy dreams. 

Old Chester Couiity's townships fair. 
Her hills and zeoods and zeandering streams. 

Her landscapes beautiful and rare — 
Dear landscapes of our happy dreams! 

What child of Chester County doth not love 
Her fields and woods all other lands above 
What child of Chester County does not see 
Those fields and woods in tender memory 
When from his well-loved home-land far away 
He feels the charm of childhood's golden day! 

Those townships fair, — in dreams he sees them still, 

Each fertile farm and every breezy hill, 

Dingle and dale and flowery pasture sweet, 

And fields of fragrant corn and rippling wheat. 

And old ancestral homes beneath the trees, — 

All these, all these in memory's dream he sees. 

Far in the Coventries he roves again 

And sees the farmers reap the golden grain ; 

Wandering 'mid Warwick's slopes once more doth seek 

For shy wild flowers along the wild French Creek, 

Around high Hone^^brook in memory clings 

To Indian Wawassan's mother-springs ; 

And in the Vincents and the Nantmeals fares. 

O'er pleasant uplands swept by wholesome airs. 

What child of Chester County but must love 
Her fields and woods all other lands above! 
Through Uwchlans and the Pikelands doth he take 
His way for "auld acquaintance" kindly sake ; 
Through Wallace and the Brandywines doth roam 
And lingers 'round Buchanan Read's old home ; 
In Whitelands and the Cains doth rapt behold 
Great Chester Valley's verdant wealth unrolled. 


Old Chester County^ s Tow/is/iips 

In Newlin and the Marlboronghs he hears 

The harvest-sounds that charmed liis childhood years, 

And finds the oUl remembered scenes the same 

In the FaUowfields with their romantic name. 

What child of Chester County but nuist love 
Her woods and fieUis all other lands above! 
The (Joshens and the Brad fords move him still 
With memories of each lovely dale and hill; 
In pastoral Pocopson and in Penn 
He Hnds the fields as beautiful as when 
He rambled here a care-free happy boy, 
Or in the Nottinfi^hams found country joy. 
In the Oxfords and in genial Londontlerry 
With ne'er-to-be-forgotten friends made merry, 
Or in those long-lost sunnner days would rove 
The landscapes green of Elk and London Grove, 
And down in kindly Kennett roaming oft 
Would dream by Taylor's pensive "Cedarcroft." 

What child of Chester county but nuist love 
Her fields and woods all other lands above! 
Easttown and AVillistown and Birmingham 
AVhere once browsed many a sheep and little lamb, 
New London and New Garden rich and green, 
Tredytt'rin with its quiet fields serene, 
Old Westtown with its ancient well-loved school, 
Pennsbur}' where among deep woodlands cool 
The wondrous wood-thrush blows his elfin flute, 
Fair Franklin with its orchards of rich fruit ; — 
These and their sister townships all are dear 
In recollection. Every passing year 
Gives to each hill and stream and dear old farm 
Its genial spell, its unforgotten charm ; 
Each passing year but sets its kindly seal 
Of tenderness and beautiful appeal. 


" Shadow- Shapes^ ' 


{Went Chester^ 

'y HOUGH otlicT lands maj' lure us far 

And the stranger's road we roam, 
Our yearning hearts still tell us true, — 
"There is only one path home !" 

We dream of the dear old town on the hills 

Near the Brandywine's bright stream. 
Of its girdling fields and woodlands wild, 

And its shady streets, — we dream; 
The shady streets where all day long 

The kindly people pass. 
And when school is out is heard the shout 

Of rosy lad and lass ; 
The town where the kindly country' folk 

So honest and true and tried 
Come in and seem to bring a breath 

From the wholesome countryside; 
^\Tiere over the golden sunset mists, 

Transfiguring roof and street. 
The church bells chime their vesper song 

All wondrous wild and sweet ; 
The town so rich in history's lore 

And the memories of old, 
"WTiere ancient daj^s and present arc blent 

In one harmonious mould. 

shad\' streets and kindly folk 
And hills by the silver stream, — 

1 know there is only one path home 

To the old town of my dream ! 

1-1 ERE as we linger for old friendship's sake, 

Loved Shadows pass before us for an hour, 
Like faintly fragrant rose-leaves that awake 
Our wistful memories of the vanished flower. 


''For Ready and W^illln^ Service' 


(T^. TF. T.) 

'T'HE "Thomson brand" of humor and good cheer 

I have enjoyed for many a happy year, 
Lighting our little corner of the earth 
With genial helpfulness and gentle mirth, 
And blessing warmly with its kindly bounty 
The folks and facts of dear old Chester County. 
His weekly "Market Gossip" brings me joy 
As truh' still as when, a little boy, 
I used to watch him round the market stroll 
And listen to the friendly farmers droll 
Talking about their butter and their beets, 
Onions and apples, sausages and meats, 
And how the country surely needed rain, 
And how the price was going up on grain, 
And what "John Plowshare" said or didn't say 
About his corn and cabbage, hogs and hay: — 
All which, and more, he serA'cd to us next day 
In his own quaint and wise and witty way. 

So long ago, — to think of it! — and still 
How fresh the message dripping from his quill ; 
How sunny-kind his daily words of cheer 
For all that Chester County holds most dear! 
— Ah, trul^' now our gratitude must flow 
Unto our good old friend, who long ago 
Became the guiding star, the kindly muse. 
The soul and spirit of the Local News! 


(A statue over a drinking-fountain near West Chester) 

npO men and creatures worn with travel's stress. 

The bronze youth holds his cup with gesture kind, 
And seems to say: "Come drink, nor fail to bless 
The friends who gave, the artist who designed." 

814 I 

'' Little Friends^' 


{Harry Lewis Raul's Statue on the Court House Lawn, 
West Chester) 

]\/f OULDED in lasting bronze the Hero stands 

Fresh minted from the sculptor's loving hands 
In that old art whose inspirations seem 
Imagination, poetry and dream. 

The symbol he of those whose bright desire 
For life and love, shrinks not at battle's fire, — 
If so their Country call upon its youth 
To lay down life and love and all, for Truth. 

May his immortal beauty ever be 

A consecration, — Loyalt}^ — to thee, 

Bidding our youth remember and revere 

Those who for Thee risked all that makes life dear. 


(By Eleanor Scott Sharpies) 

t^ULL of childhood days it seems, 

Childhood's dear and sunny dreams, 
Memories that touch me so 
From the golden Long Ago, — 

Chester County's kindly ways, 
Happy-hearted Summer days, 
Picnics by the Brand^'wine 
When the air was dreamy-fine; 
Mellow Autumn's fruits and flowers. 
And the lingering sunset hours ; 
Folks around the cheerful hearth 
Gathered for the Christmas mirth; 
And the crocuses again 
Coming with the warm Spring rain, 



All such memories and more 
Waken as I ponder o'er 
Her deliglitful childhood lore, — 
Warm and waken as I look 
Through lier sunny-hearted book. 


T WENT in September and strolled through the town of 

my birth. 
The kindest and dearest on earth; 
And heard the high tower pealing grandl}' its chimes as 

of old, 
In a sunset of sapphire and gold. 

I saw the old houses I knew in my boyhood, and thought 
Of the changes the calm 3'ears have wrought. 
Of the voices now vanished forever that cheered me of 

Kind voices that cheer nevermore; — 
Yet the streets are the same, and the great trees in 

Everhart's Grove 
Where the sun and the shade interwove 
Their vistas of beauty and lanes of enchantment for me, — 
A woodland of strange mystery, — 
And the same little stream with its melody fairy-fine 
Still flows toward the Brandywine. 
And the churches and dear Quaker meetings, and green 

Marshall Square 
Cool-shadowed and peaceful and fair; 
The environing hills and the meadows, — all, all of it seems 
Like the homeland beloved of my dreams : 
But O for the voices now vanished that cheered me of yore, 
Now to cheer and console nevermore ! 




Here Rests 

The Last of the Lenxi Lenape 

Indians in Chester County 

Who died in 1802 

T AST of her race, she sleeps in this lone grave, — 

Lowly and lone, and dim and half-forgot 
In these last hundred summers since she died; 
Last of her race, — laid here so long ago 
And gently mourned by folk of alien stock, 
But not of alien hearts, kind Quaker folk 
Who cherished the lone Indian, cared for her, 
And made her loneliness less sorrowful. 
Till life went out. 

And so went out a race 
That through uncounted cj^cles had their home 
Besides Wawassan's wild and wandering stream, — 
Tracking the bear and elk among these hills 
And taking fish in those rude stone-built dams 
That still remain in old Wawassan's stream. 
And celebrating round their flickering fires 
Strange pagan rite and solemn dance of war, — 
So long and long ago ! — ere yet our sires 
Forced Magna Carta on reluctant John, 
Or yielded unto Alfred's kindly law, 
Yea, even ere they stormed the eastern shores 
Of Britain, rovers on the wild North Sea, — 
So long ago this old Algonquin folk 


Indian Hannah 

Hunted and warred and worshipped 'mid the woods 
That hid these hills in endless greenery. 

What tribal memories survived in her, 

That last lone Indian woman, — what remote 

And pale tradition from the ancient years, 

Of sylvan loves and wars, heroic deeds 

Of deathless chieftains, wisdom of the gods? 

I think some primal feeling surely stirred 

At times that lonely heart brooding the Past, 

When in gray autumn twilights by her fire 

She mused and mourned, recalling how in youth 

She heard the old men grieve, old women weep 

O'er territory wrested from their tribe 

By the intruding English. Hopelessly 

They grieved and wept ; — she could not understand 

The great All-Father's will, she only knew 

How numbers lessened, how the forests fell 

And spoiled the hunting, how the fishing failed, 

And how as farmland after farmland spread 

Along Wawassan's shores, her people waned 

In ancient power and comfort. 

— 'Tis but little 
We do, in honoring her name to-day. 
Toward offering penance for the pitiless force 
Exerted by our sires against her race. 
To-day, among these grand old Indian hills. 
And by this wild and wandering Indian stream. 
In reverence and sorrow let us rear 
This strong rude boulder o'er the Indian's grave, — 
We, of the alien English, paying thus 
Some tribute small of honor and remorse 
Unto the noble natives of these hills 
By Indian Wawassan's mourning stream. 

EmbrecviUe, 1909 


Jf^as king ton and Lafayette 



tpOr^EVER honored are these noble hills 

And old farm valleys of the Brandywine, — • 
Honored forever by the memory 
Of him, our Hero-chief, who long ago 
Marshaled his faithful men at Birmingham 
And strove in battle on the autumn hills 
Through long hot hours, while near him stood unblenched 
The gallant Chevalier who cast his lot 
With young America, and lent the charm 
Of old-world knighthood to our patriot cause. 

What though the day was lost? — The Mother-land 

First learned on yonder heights of Birmingham 

What ardor stirred, what solemn passion fired 

The Colonists who fought for freedom's sake. 

Not in offensive war, but to protect 

Their hearths and homes, true to the Saxon sense 

Of independence, and the Saxon law 

Of free self-government, — a heritage 

Their sires in England through long centuries 

Wrung from reluctant kings. Yea, England learned, 

On every field of that hard-fought retreat, 

What sacrifices Englishmen will make 

For English freedom. 

And that slow retreat 
Was glorified by Lafayette, who shed 
His blood in battle's midst, — brave Lafayette, 
Youngest crusader of a valorous line 
Illustrious in France from ancient days. 
Dear was he to our fathers, and most dear, 
I think, to Washington, who found in him 
Whole-heartqd and devoted heroism. 
Most knightly courage and most filial love; 


Washington and Lafayette 

Theirs was a friendship grand and memorable, 
A friendship such as Homer might have sung 
In some new Iliad of our western world! 

In musing vision I behold them stand 

Like heroes carved upon an ancient frieze, 

Forever glorious, forever calm, 

In marble immortality. Yea, there. 

Beside old Birmingham's grey Meeting-house, 

Their spirits walk as on that deathless day, — 

Great Washington, high-hearted Lafayette, — 

The matchless friends in war and peace, whose names, 

Renowned and splendid, rank with those of yore, 

With all the great-souled patriots of the world. 

With Cromwell do they stand, with Garibaldi, 

With Bolivar and Gordon, — kingly men 

And epic figures from the storied Past, — 

In such immortal comradeship they stand ! 

These ancient houses of our theme to-day. 
These quaint grey homes that for a little space 
Welcomed those gracious souls at old Chadd's Ford, 
And so acquired a glory, — they shall fade 
And fall like all man's works ; but while these hills 
Endure, and while our pastoral Brandywine, — 
Old Indian Wawassan, — flows and sings 
Among the meadows and the shadowy woods. 
Still shall two mighty spirits haunt these hills, — 
The great Virginian, the Son of France, — 
And lend them lustre through uncounted years. 
Chadds Ford, 1910 


New London Academy 




/^AN bills and bonds, can iron and wool and wheat 

Render our nation's nobleness complete? 
High though their function, yet they have their day 
And yield unto the Spirit's silent sway. 
'Tis onh' Education can make great 
The destiny and glory of the state ; 
Beyond the mart she sits in peace serene, 
Benignant and august, a deathless queen. 

— Here in her ancient home, at this high hour, 
We come to celebrate her genial power. 

Yea, Education long hath had her seat 

And sure abode in this serene retreat; 

Our father's fathers at this ancient school 

Have passed their golden 3'outh beneath her rule. 

Forth from her gentle guidance they have gone 

To hand New London's noble spirit on. 

And, to whatever region, carry there 

Some portion of her liberating air. 

Renowned the bead-roll of her sons, and bright 

The record of their spreading forth the light, 

Strong sturdy souls bred in a faith sincere 

By men of simple hearts and life austere, 

The brave Scotch-Irish, who so long have lent 

Their virile force in our wide continent. 

And ever planted virture's vital seed 

By high integrity of word and deed. 

New London gave us men who ruled the State 
And helped our young Republic to create ; 
Our colleges have chosen for their head 
Great-hearted scholars at New London bred ; 
She gave us noble preachers, and she gave 
Patriots who helped their well-loved land to save. 



Rciul and Taylor 

To ovei'v walk of life her sons have brought 
Her gift of sterling faith and lofty thought. 

What love New Tjontlon's loyal sons must hokl 
For Ahna IMater, never may he toltl. 
Nor yet the reverence and thanksj:jivin<:f twined 
Like fadeless flowers aroinul the heart and mind. 
'Twas here they learned as by a second birth 
Patience and coura<»"e for the trials oi earth; 
'Twas here that to their y»)ufhful souls was given 
Foreknowledge of the paths that point to heaven. 

New TiOndon gave them manly strength and pride 
And finnness, that no fears can turn aside; 
She gave them heart and valor for the fight 
They waged in every land for Truth and Hight. 
They sought the fields of iu)bleness and fame, 
Faithful forever to her honored name; 
Her honored name for them was graven high. 
In her dear pattern did they live and die. 

Such was New London's share in making great 
The destiny and glory of the State; 
So shall she live in memory serene. 
Benignant and august, a deathless queen. 
So shall this ancient Chester County shrine 
With noble lustre down the centuries shine. 
AVw London, 1911 



1-1 OW may I tell my love and admiration 

For Read and Taylor, bards of joy and truth. 
With ^^■hat poor words add to this celebration 

Of poets who were lights unto my youth. 
To whom I gave my earliest admiration! 


Read and Taylor 

I rcud their son^s hi-sitJe our little river, 
Our softly-flowing sylvan lirarulywine ; 

I read tlieir son^s among tlic hills, wherever 

01(1 Chester County's wild-flowers sway and shine, 

In fields and ffrovcs and by our little river. 

W'itii Read's and Taylor's song I loved to wander 
Among our lulls and by our storied stream, 

And ever did I give affection fonder 

Unto those realms of solitude and dream 

Where I so dearly loved to muse and wander. 

I loved their fervent songs of sky and ocean, 

liomantic mountain and historic vale; 
And as I read I shared in their emotion, — 

My fancy followed them by down and dale, 
Wj wood and stream and hill and sky and ocean. 

I heard Buchanan Read's fond celebration 
Of silver Susquehanna's lordly stream; 

I heard with joy his lyrical laudation 

Of fields where first he learned to love and dream. 

The fair home-fields of his fond celebration. 

.^mid the hills beyond wide Chester Valley 
I saw the humble home where Read was born, 

lOach well-loved field and brook and orchard alley 
And hillside fragrant with the waving corn. 

In that green peaceful dale beyond the Valley. 

I'Vom those loved home-scenes how the poet's vision 
Wandered at will to regions far away, 

liearing his soul to drift in dreams P^Iysian 
Across the misty- blue Vesuvian bay, — 

So strong the lift and lure of his bright vision! 


Read and Taylor 

From Read I turnod to follow Koiinetl''s story, 
And roamed in this delightful countryside 

^Vhich "^raylor's art has touched as Avith a ^lory, 
And saw the Kennett farmers true and tried 

Whose fathers figure in that sylvan story. 

How deep was Taylor's love for Chester County, 
Its every beauteous stream and trajujuil farm! 

lie loved its verdant plenitude and bounty; 
He loved, how deeply ! all tlie wondrous charm 

Of our historic ancient Chester County, 

Friendly of heart, he loved the quiet Quakers, 
He thoujjfht of them when far beyond the sea, — 

"Serene amon^ their memory-hallowed acres," 
Still yearninfif that his manhood's home might be 

At "Cedarcroft" among the kindly Quakers. 

And here he wrought his lyric odes impassioned, 
INIusing and dreaming in this calm retreat; 

His best and noblest utterance here was fashioned. 
O, I remember how in youth 'twas sweet 

To think of him amid his dreams impassioned! 

Rut chiefly was I moved to veneration 
Of Bayard Taylor's manliness sincere. 

His gifts of friendship and of admiration, — 
Who held all beauty worshipful and dear; 

His great heart won my lifelong veneration. 

Such were the brother-bards whose gifts we cherish, 
Poets and dreamers of illustrious name. 

We cannot let their recollection perish; 
Nay, still enshrined in ever-loving fame 

Their bright renown our land full long shall cherish. 

Cedarcroft, 1912 


Two Chest 67^ County Sages 




/^ I''T had my grandsire pointed out to mc 

This ancient house full of serenity, 
'J'his ancient grove full of a classic grace, 
As we fared past the "Humphry JNIarshall place" 
And saw his (^aks, magnolias and pines, 
His dogwoods and his shrubs and wildwood vines. 
Yea, near to Marshall's time my grandsire seemed; 
And I in dreaming childhood often dreamed 
There hovered round this olden house some spell, 
And round this shadowy grove. I may not tell 
What visionary charm they held for me — 
So dark, so old, so full of mystery ! 

Darlington's "Life of Marshall" is a book 

Endeared to me since long ago I took 

The goodly volume with me to the farm 

And fell a happy victim to its charm. 

I pondered it through many blissful hours, 

Musing on Marshall and his well-loved flowers, 

His curious trees and shrubs from far and near, 

Each one to him a precious thing and dear, — 

The wisely-chosen plants he loved to send 

To Dr. Fothergill, his English friend, — 

The plants of which 'twas his dcliglit to talk 

With friends who joined him in his garden walk, 

Or to describe in many a pithy page 

To Franklin and like worthies of that age. 

How pleasant is the scheme of life he fills. 
The quiet Quaker of West Bradford's hills, — 
Wise in all rustic lore, friendly and kind; 
Through all his years enriching still his mind 
By intercourse with Nature, finding her 
Repay most bounteously her worshiper; 


Two Chester Cou7tty Sages 

Contented in this simple, genial home, 
He lived like some old sage of antique Rome, 
Like canny Columella, Virgil, Varro, 
Knowing the seasons for the plow and harrow. 
Learned in all weather signs, skilled in all lore 
Of pond and pasture, glebe and threshing-floor ; 
Among his fields or by his ingle-nook 
Reading forever in Nature's open book ; 
And crowning all with a religious sense 
And constant gratitude to Providence : — 
Such worth is never lost, but to this hour 
Enriches us with its undying power. 

The happiness, the dignity, the charm 

Of life on many a Chester County farm. 

The love of old-world joys and rural peace 

Which through the generations doth not cease, — 

All these we have inherited, I know. 

From Humphry Marshall's time of long ago. 

The quiet Quaker by the Brandywine 

Was founder of the honorable line 

Of Chester County botanists whose fame 

Still lends a lustre to her cherished name, 

And of those peaceful farming folk sincere 

To whom our trees and native flowers are dear. 

Foremost was Dr. Darlington ; his book 

Is full of beauty as some meadow-brook 

Winding its way among the sweet wild-flowers 

And singing of them through the summer hours. 

His "Flora Cestrica" in truth beguiles 

The road of life through many weary miles 

For all who love the pleasant rural lore 

Here wisely garnered in abundant store. 

For all who seek and find on every page 

The warm heart-knowledge of West Chester's sage,- 

Large-minded Darlington, who sowed the seed 


General Anthony Wayne 

Of public good by lofty word and deed; 
The genial, kindly sage whose high renown 
Is warmly honored in his old home-town. 

Marshall and Darlington are names to cherish ; 
Their memory is green and cannot perish. 
No worthier names, no men of finer soul 
Do Chester County's chronicles enroll ; 
And while their well-loved science shall endure. 
Their honored place in history is sure. 

Marshallton, 1913 



HO does not love the memory' of Wayne.'' 


Our sturdy patriot of heroic strain ; 
The. simple citizen whose ardor great 
Makes him immortal in his native State ; 
Immortal 'mid the patriots who stand 
The liberators of their struggling land ! 

High-hearted Wayne, he truh' seems more near 
At this ancestral home he held so dear ; 
Among these woods and roads and old home-fields 
Some vision of the man our fanc}' yields. 
Descended from the valiant Yorkshire Waynes, 
The blood of heroes coursing in his veins ; 
Farmer, surveyor, neighbor true and kind, 
The gentleman of liberal heart and mind; 
Home-loving, friendly, taking honest pride 
In all the interests of the countryside; 
With a soul of honor and a heart of gold. 
Like one of Plutarch's men of ancient mould. 
Such men are sent us when the time is ripe. 
Our sterling Chester County's noblest type. 


General Antho7iv Wayne 

lli^h uiul illuslrious was llio part lio hove 

111 that <jfriNil f|)ic of t'olonial war, 

Wliorriii our faHiors tacod I'l'd walls ofdcalh 

Thai, their doar country nii^lil (h*aw l''i\"i'(h)ni's breath; 

And many a fii'ld is bri«;htrr yoi in I'anio 

Linki>d with "lAlad Anthony's" heroic name. 

With hi^h distinction still his exploits shine 

At Stony Point and hard-fought Kraiidy wine; 

The memory of JMonnioutli and (ireeu Springs 

AVith his courageous gallantry still rings ; 

And .lamestown Fonl and olden German! own 

Still clu'rish anil remember his renown. 

'I'rusft'd and loved by AVashington was he, — 
Our valorous knight of antique chivalry. 
Ever responiling to his chieftain's need 
With helpful counsel and with splendid deed. 
I love his pictured face u})on the wall 
Of that great room in Tnde[HMulence Hall; 
A very kind and cheery face it seenis. 
With genial eyes not all unlit by dreams. 
The face of one to be a trusted friend. 
Utterly staiuich and loyal to the end. 

Invincible of s[)irit, generous, brave. 
He long has slumbered in a hero's grave 
'Neath Old Saint David's venerable trees, 
AVhoso branches sighing in the sunmier breeze 
Murmur their requiem for our valorous one — 
Old Chester County's great and matchless son. 

General W(i//iic's hoiiic, W1.!f. 


T/ie Prayer for Peace 


{On the Eve of the Battle of Brandy wine, Sept. 10, 1777) 
17^ OR inuny a- year wliat summers have been mine, 

Among the meadows of the Brandywine, 
Where oftentime in reverie and dream 
I wandered by that old historic stream, 
In reminiscent mood oft pondering o'er 
The legends lingering by its winding shore. 

Of all the tales that haunt these emerald hills 

The thought of one my musing fancy fills, — 

How on the eve of that great fight 

A prayer went up into the night, 

Invoking vengeance of the Lord 

On all who, taking up the sword. 

Would drive beneath the tyrant's yoke 

A free and freedom-loving folk. 

God's mercy, prayed the preacher then. 

Support and shine around our men, 

The great of soul, the high of heart. 

Who sprang from field and forge and mart 

To fight for home and wife and child. 

God grant to them his mercy mild 

Who shall mayhap to-morrow keep 

The vigils of eternal sleep. 

Whose hero-blood shall stain the sod. 

Whose souls shall go to meet their God ! 

O grant that wicked warfare cease. 

And bless our land at last with endless peace! 

There is no "glory" in this simple prayer. 

No cannon's thunder and no trumpet's blare. 

Yet shall the spirit of that prayer prevail, 

And war remembered be but as a tale. 

In those far years toward which, though sorely tried. 

Mankind still marches on, with God for guide. 

Birmingham, 1915 


Ow^ Heroic Sires 


T OYAL Dmi^Iihers, — how often with admiration 

Do I think of Iho great Ideal held by you, 
Cherishing still the names of our sires heroic 
With a loving loyally line and firm and trne! 

No high i\('i}d that marked their dear devotion, 
No least service done in those peri Ions days 

Bnt has at your haiids its fitting celebration, 
From your loyal hearts its meed of noble praise. 

This greeting, Loyal Daughters, \v\. me offer 
Hc-membering lu-r who once was one of yon, 

AVho lovi'd through life with deej) and warm affection 
The great Ideal to which your hearts are true. 


{Decoration Dat/) 

l^^AR down the street with j)ensive tread 

The grey oltl heroes pass. 
To where their comrades long have lain 
Asleep beneath the grass; 

lleneath Ihe grass on (piiet hills. 

In vales by quiet streams, 
Where battle's clangor nevermore 

Shall break their quiet dreams. 

Far down the street the veterans pass ; 

Their pace is staid and slow; 
And sorrowing nnisic marks their steps 

From bugles breathing low. 

From bugles low, and languid flutes, 

And slowly beaten drum 
"^riie hours go by, — sad nuisic sounds. 

And up the street the}' come. 


Heftry Hayes 

Tlicy slowly come; but empty now 

Their arms of starry bloom, 
For they have strewn the morning's flowers 

O'er many a lowly tomb, 

O'er many a tomb on quiet hills 

And down by quiet streams. 
The dead, — O do they know these rites, 

And sweeter are their dreams? 

I know not ; but to those who see 

That sad procession slow. 
Who look on those grey heads, and hear 

The mournful bugles blow. 

There comes a warmer quickening 

Of patriotic fires, 
A deepening of reverence 

For our heroic sires. 


{Read at the Bicentennial of the Hayes Family in Chester 
County, September, 1905) 

npWO hundred years have rolled away 

And mingled with the countless span. 
Two centuries since our English sire 

Founded in this new world our clan. 
What fortitude was his, what faith. 

What trust in the all-friendly God 
Who led him o'er the trackless sea 

To this remote and virgin sod. 
Far from his own dear English fields, 

Beyond the utmost western foam. 
Amid these Chester County hills 

To fix and found his new-world home. 


Ife/irv Haves 

'I'lio pleasant vales of Oxfordshire 

Lovely with all their storied oharnis, 
The tvreen-niar^ed Thames sh)W winding down 

Amid the peaceful ancient, farms ; 
The mea(h)ws and the hedtje-rows i;'reen, 

'l^he ori'hard and the Howery i;arth, 
Tlie ancient church and ivied walls 

That sheltered his ancestral hearth, — 
How far, how fair seemed those lost scenes 

When in this new world strani;e and wild 
He tlu)u<j;ht u})oii his Knglish home 

Dear from the days he was a child ! 

And yet how happy were his dreams 

Had it been gi^'en him to see 
How this new land would bless his sons 

Through all the golden years to be! 
God grant some vision yet was his 

To dream of these our happy days 
When we revere with filial love 

Our sire, our founder — Henry Ha3'es. 
'I'hrough all our clan, in Aveal or woe, 

Forever may they cherished be — 
The fortitude, the faith that drew 

Our English sire across the sea. 

These dear home meadows, these old roads, 

These tranquil fields of clover sweet, 
These well-loved woods, these grey old barns, 

These acres rich with golden wheat, — 
Our fathers loved them one and all; 

They lived and died on this dear land; 
Ancestral feelings stir the heart 

As on this sacred soil we stand. 
May never son or daughter here 

Forget these acres of our birth, 
Nor fail to love with loyal zeal 

Our portion of the fruitful earth. 


At Peace Beside Wawassan 

May we, liis far-dcscendcd li(.'ir.s, 

Be worthy liis ancestral /:^ift 
Or friendliness and kindly cheer 

And simple honesty and thrift. 
May we uphold inviolate 

Tlie ;?lory of his patriot fame, 
True children of his lionored hlood 

And faithful to his cherished name! 


{The Indians and Quaker.s disputed the possession of 
the tract of some 7000 acres on tJie lirand/jwine, — or 
"Wawassan" of the Indians, — now Newlin Township, 
Chester County, which Nathaniel Newlin purchased from 
the Free Society of Traders. In this little play peace is 
brought about through the medium of friendship and 
brotherly forbearance.) 

Characters : 

Hkney Hayes En^hsh Quaker 

Nathaniei^ Newlin Irish Quaker 

Faith Newlin' His Dau/^hter 

Checochinican Indian Chief 

WixoNA His Daughter 

Eagle's Feathee \ 

?/'^'^«^^ [ Indian Maidens 



Little Tiirl'sh 

Scene: Indian village on the Wawassan 
Time: The year 1725 


Faith Newlin and Winona 


(Stirring maize meal) 

All day I've played beside Wawassan's stream 

And watched the creatures there, — the pretty fish 


At Peace Beside IVawassan 

That leap among the shallows in the sun, 
The black-birds flitting in the evergreens, 
The happy squirrels. I have seen the deer, 
Dappled and tender-eyed, come down to drink 
Wawassan's crystal waters. O what joy 
This life among the hills ! Winona, dear, 
Come, for the maize is ready for the fire. 

'Tis good for you to help me, Faith. Our fathers 
will soon be home and hungry for supper. A hot fire will 
soon warm the maize ; and here are fish fresh from Wa- 
wassan. (Pours meal into kettle, aiid hangs it and fish 
over the fire.) 

Winona, dear, it grieves me to the heart 
To think my father should dispute Avitli thine 
About the lands along Wawassan's stream. 


Yes, I wish they would be friends and agree in peace. 
Henry Hayes and George Harlan are good friends 
of father, and I hope Nathaniel Newlin will be his friend 

Perhaps when next they meet, they'll be more kind 
To one another. When we are such friends, 
I truly wish our fathers were so too. 
O may they be at peace beside Wawassan ! 

Indeed, that is my strongest wish, dear Faith. 

The evening falls most sweetly. Let us sing 
The sunset song we made together, dear. 


At Peace Beside IVawassan 

'Now the squirrels close their eyes. 
Now the swallows seek the nest; 
In the fragrant forest shades 

All the creatures go to rest. 

Rest is sweet and rest is good 

For all things at end of day; 
Rose and rabbit, bird and bee 

Sleep the drowsy hours away. 

(Faith enters wigwam) 

(Enter from their canoes. Eagle's Feather, Opechee, 

GoLDENROD und Little Thrush) 

FiAGLE's Feather 
Hail, sister ! We come with peace in our hearts, and 
we bring gifts. 


Come sit beside our fire, dear sisters. Welcome ever 
to our land and to our wigwam. Whence come 3'ou ? 

We dwell far up; yea, at the headwaters of Wawas- 
san's silver stream, far up where the deer have their homes 
and where the fish swim up to hatch their little ones in the 

How come you here, sisters.'* A weary way it is to 
Wawassan's upper waters, I've heard my father say. 

Eagle's Feather 
We started yesterday, — Opechee here, and Golden- 
rod, and Little Thrush, and I whom they call Eagle's 
Feather. We heard of the Quaker damsel, your friend; 
and we journeyed all this way in our canoes, to look at her. 

TiCt me call her. Faith ! Faith, dear ! 
(Faith enters from wigwam) 


At Peace Beside W^awassan 

See, little friend of mine, these good sisters of our 
race of Lenape, who have come from Wawassan's upper 

O I am so happy to greet them. Thy name, tall 

Eagle's Feather 
They call me Eagle's Feather. Here, this will remind 
you of me. 

{Giving long feather) 

And thee, dark-haired maiden, thy pretty woodland 

Opechce ; and I bring you shells from upper Wawas- 
san, where the stream flows bubbly-clear. 
{Giving muss el- shells) 

And thy sweet name.? 


The}^ name me Goldenrod, the happy one. 
{Giving Indian basket) 

And this dear little Indian girl.? 

Eagle's Feather 
She is Little Thrush. 

{Putting her arm around her) 
Dear Little Thrush ! 

Little Thrush 
This for you. 

{Giving flower) 

O dear friends, thank you, thank you all ! 


At Peace Beside Wawassan 

Yes, yes, how kind of you to come ! Sit now and rest. 
Let us chant "Wawassan the Beautiful," and then we'll 
have our forest dance. 

Wawassan the beautiful. 
Silvery stream. 
Home of our happiness, 
Home of our dream! 
Stream "where our fathers 
Have lived through the years 
Love we forever 

Through joy and through tears. 

{Repeat last four lines) 

{Indians dance round the fire and among the forest trees, 

till all fade away among the shadows) 


{Next morning) 

Nathaniel Newlin and Checochinican 


Checochinican, since yester-week 

1 have been well advised by our wise friend 
Who dwells on yonder hills of Marlborough, — 
Yea, Henry Ha^'es, that gentle Englishman. 
At Quaker Meeting held in Henry's house 
He preached of peace. 

Yes, I have heard he is a man of peace. 

True peace and friendliness was all his theme ; 
Most tenderly, most kindly did he speak. 
Peace is all I desire, O friend of mine. The great White 
Father, William Penn, made promise that so long as one 


At Peace Beside Wawassan 

Indian lived, grew old and blind, and died, and thus to the 
third generation, — for so long should we of the Lenni 
Lenape race still hold our lands beside Wawassan's stream. 

The Free Society of Traders sold 
To me this land a mile wide up and down, 
And east to that great rock below the hill 
Hard by your grave-yard 'mid the lofty oaks. 
But sure I would be loath to drive thee off 
Or bring thy tribe to harm. 

Your settlers have built dams which stop the fish from 
going upstream. Of old our children used to shoot the 
fish with their bows and arrows. 

Our good George Harlan shall go up and down 
And bid the settlers to undo that ill. 

O friend, I know not how to thank you! 

Since Faith, my daughter dear, has grown so fond 
Of thy dear child Winona, I have thought 
Far better of the matter. Let us send 
For Henry Hayes, and ask for his advice 
And counsel ere we order our affairs. 

'Tis well said. Winona ! Winona ! 
(Enter Winona) 

Yes, Father dear. 

Go with your little friends and ask Henry Hayes to 

(The six girls go ojf dancing and singing) 


At Peace Beside Wawassan 

Henry Hayes, Nathaniel Newijn, and Indians 
Hail, Chccocliinican ; Friend Newlin, hail ! 

{They clasp hands) 
Friends, let me counsel peace. I long have lived, — 
Lately in this new Province of great Penn's, 
And, in my earlier years, in Oxfordshire 
In green Old England. I have seen disputes 
That injured all a neighborhood for years; 
Again, I've seen where harmony and peace 
Prevailed o'er jarring men and made them friends 
And gave them happiness beyond compare. 
Now, Checochinican, Friend Newlin, come 
Join hands and promise you will live at peace. 

For sake of friendship and for sake of peace, 
And for that our young daughters are dear mates, — 
Faith Newlin and Winona, gentle maids, — 
I do accede to Henry's counsels wise. 
Come, Checochinican, forevermore 
Shall peace and amity between us last. 

Well said, well said, my friend. 
{They slowly smoke the peace-pipe, then clasp hands and 
exchange gifts) 
Truly, a happy ending of affairs ; 
May heaven's blessing rest upon your treaty ! 
O let us dance and sing for very joy! 

{Indian girls and Faith dance and sing) 
Ever let us live in peace. 
Ever let our love increase, 
■ Here by old Wawassan^s shore. 

Friends, O friends forevermore! 



T/icy Sli/?/iher in Peace 


\^71IA'J' peace niul quiet happiness were thine 

On thy green acres b}' the liranilywine, 
Where kindly fortune filled the rustic year 
With farm, and "JMeeting" loved, and friendships dear ! 


C\^ this old farm my family has lived 

O'er seven-score years ; and an endearing spell 

Haunts its green acres and its silver stream. 
It lias a beauty past all words to tell. 
Antique, ancestral, — an endearing spell ! 


{A Country Grave-Yard above the Brandyxmne) 

npilE grave-yard is peaceful and still 

Where they slumber in peace on the hill ; 
And the winds in the evergreens Avhisper a song, 
They murmur and whisper tlie whole summer long 
Above the green graves on the hill. 

The moon in the long winter night 
Dreams down on their low head-stones white ; 
And the winds in the evergreens murmur and moan 
O'er the legend engraved on each pitiful stone, 
'Neath the moon in the long winter night. 

The leaves of the autunni drift deep 

O'er the sorrowful scene of their sleep, 

And June after June through the limitless years 

The roses weep o'er them in dcAvy cold tears 

Where they slumber in peacefulness deep. 


Dr, Isaac L He 


O sweet is tlieir dreaming and still 

In tlieir graves on the green-shaded liill; 

For blest is their fate who in peace shall repose 

Sung o'er by tlie winds and bewept by the rose 

Where they silently sleep on the hill. 


(Lines read at the dedication of the Monument in com- 
memoration of the Satterlee Military Hospital, West 
PhiladelpJiia, June 10, 1010. This great hospital was vn 
charge of Dr. Hayes during the Civil War, giving refuge 
and treatment to great multitudes of wounded soldiers.) 

nn us who knew him in our childhood days 
He was the family hero, Isaac Hayes — 
Come back from great adventure on far seas 
To tell strange tales beneath the quiet trees, 
Painting in vivid words and colors bright 
The desolation of the Arctic night 
In those vast, lonely regions 'round the Pole 
That test men's fortitude and try the soul; 
For he had fared across the icy world 
And in far Grinnell Land the flag unfurled 
Amid those wild wastes of eternal snow 
Nearer the Pole than man yet dared to go. 

Wholly in keeping with his noble heart 
It was, that he should bear a generous part 
When civil war raged forth in his loved land. 
We know with what solicitude he planned 
The spacious hospice that on this low hill 
Sheltered and succored men from war's vast ill. 
We know with what heroic faith and zeal 
He led the forces that allay and heal 
The grievous hurts of battle; his the art 
To govern here with warm and kindly heart. 



Learning and Loyalty 

hove followed in his steps, love crowned the days 
Of him, our peaceful warrior, Isaac Hayes. 

How great of heart he was, how just, how true, 

How fine of soul — they testify who knew 

His genial, generous nature, and recall 

His friendliness and sympathy with all 

Both old and young, his blithe and merry wa3's ; — 

We loved him well, our hero, Isaac Hayes. 

Long years ago he left this earthly scene. 

But in our hearts his memory still is green. 

Honor and long remembrance to his name 

Who, simple as a child, sought not for fame. 

— Strange he should die so young! — his sire survived 

Far into white old age, the longest-lived 

And most revered of venerable men.* 

In recollection clear I see again 

The good old man, his tranquil Quaker face 

Beaming with benediction and the grace 

From quiet, long-enduring patience won 

Grieving in silence for his deep-loved son, — 

That son to whose bright memory in these hours 

We bring the meed of music and of flowers. 

Here where through war's dark years he bore his part 

And gave so freely of his noble heart. 


{For the West Chester High School) 

A^ITHERE floats the flag, our hearts must follow, 

Follow the flag of the silver stars 
As over the well-loved High School streaming 
It waves to heaven its crimson bars. 

*Benjamin Hayes 


Learning and Loyalty 

O think what they gave with that flag, our fathers, 

Patriot sires of tlie honored land, 
Seeing across the years in their vision 

Learning and Loyalty hand in hand! 

Learning and Loyalty, aye, twin sisters, — 

Never the twain shall parted be 
While the lands of earth with admiration 

Look on our young democracy. 

The Flag and the School, what noble symbols ! 

Each hath given a sacred part. 
Each hath touched with patriot ardor 

The chords of our strong young nation's heart. 

And wherever rises a school's white belfry 

Proudly among the sheltering trees. 
There the folds of dear Old Glory 

Grandly stream in the happy breeze. 

Here in the home of our heart's affection, 
Centuried town 'mid the fields of green. 

Pearl and pride of old Chester County, 
Crowning the hills like a stately queen. 

Learning and letters have ever flourished, 
Fruit of thought and of heart's desire; 

Nor ever have sons of hers been lacking 
In loj^alty and patriot fire. 

These streets have knowTi the sage and the scholar; 

Why need I call each memoried name, 
Or summon from storied fields of battle 

The soldier sons of glorious fame! 

They softly sleep — though dead, yet deathless : 
God hath given them peace for aye, — 

Their memory a consecration 

To us of the living world to-day. 



Hior/] School Mcjfiories 

These risin^j walls shall gently shelter — 

Shelter nnil cherish the long years through — 

Children worthy those sires undying, 
Children as noble, as kindly, as true. 

They, too, shall love the patriot virtues. 
They, too, shall revere the ideals of old, 

They shall place clear truth and honor 
Above the alluring call of gold; 

Nourishing still the nobler vision, 

Dreaming still of the good to be, 
Led by their kindliest friends, their teachers, 

To the love of Learning and Loj'alty. 

These walls in the far off years must perish. 

For only hearts and souls endure. 
And God shall prosper and bless His children 

Who live and die for the True and Pure. 


{Read at an Alumni Dinner) 

I REMEMBER the days M'hen we wandered in search of 

the early spring flowers 
And strolled in the Rrandywine meadows through golden 

and heavenly hours. 
I think I shall never forget them, those days of delight 

and of dream. 
Nor the kind-souled Miss Whitford who taught us our 

love for that beautiful stream ! 
I remember the music enchanting we heard in the old 

High School room, 
A tangle of tune and a fabric of sound from some exquisite 

loom ; — 
Ah, golden and sweet and sonorous it has rung in my 

memory long. 
That music of well-beloved hyjnns and fragments of 

plaintive old song. 


High School Memories 

I remember the wondrous commencements in the golden 

soft evenings of June; 
I can still smell the smilax and roses, and still hear the 

magical tune 
Of the soft violins and piano float out on the sweet summer 

While the foot-lights illumined the faces of the graduates 

grave or fair. 
And our essays and wondrous orations, — O, who of us 

does not recall 
How mighty we felt as we spoke them in old Horticultural 

Those doses of fine erudition and treatises wise and most 

While the audience perspired and applauded, or vulgarly 

went to sleep ! 
Well, those dear old commencements have vanished, and 

now looking back o'er the years 
I think that the best thing about them was our downpour 

of real farewell tears ! 
And never comes music at twilight but I still hear the 

magical tune 
Of soft violins and piano at commencement in some far-off 


I remember, 0, I remember the noble and endless joy 
Which the High School teachers opened for a wistful and 

dreaming bo}', — 
The joy of the Poet's pages. They set the doorway ajar 
To the paradise of the Muses where the mighty singers 

And with all my High School nonsense and fooling and 

idle hours, 
In that happy garden I wandered 'mid fadeless and beau- 
tiful flowers. 
And many and many Alumni more eloquent than I, 
Still thank those friendly teachers and with gratitude 


Hj'or/i ScJiool Memories 

To the solace and noble pleasure, tiie comfort and the 

Which the Poets give tlieir disciples through 3'ear on 

ripening year. 
There are other joys and comforts, yet they perish and 

have an end. 
While Shakespeare or Shelley or Wordsworth becomes 

an eternal friend, 
An eternal friend who enchants us with high and 

melodious dreams. 
In the hajipy fabled meadows beside immortal streams. 
Then gratitude to the teachers who made this solace ours. 
And guided our youthful footsteps among the Muses' 

bowers ! 

I remember, O, I remember, how often we left the town 
To stroll where our little river goes winding and wandering 

O, I think I could linger forever beside that beautiful 

Linger and loaf with my fishing-pole in dream on happ}"^ 

dream ; — 
'Tis very easy dreaming when you fish in the Brandywine, 
For old Marsh Preston caught the last bass back in 

eighteen ninety-nine ; 
But the flowers still bloom in the meadows and bird-songs 

fill the air, 
And those who seek for Arcadia will find it right out there. 

Our little river is still as fair, its deeps are as clear and 

As when we truants -wandered there in the days of the old 

High School ; 
And I reckon the present fellows go and fool round old 

"Blue Rock," 
And feel the gleam of the soft June sun and the current's 

cooling shock. 


High School Memories 

I reckon, if they stop to think, they're as near to heaven 

out there 
As they can ever hope to get in this wonderful world so 

fair ; — 
But O, for the far-off High School days and that lost 

youth of mine. 
When I wandered and dreamed, a happy boy, by the banks 

of the Brandy wine ! 

Where are the many children from our Alma Mater's 

breast ? 
Some dwell by the eastern ocean, and some in the mighty 

West ; 
Some by the sunny rivers of the southland sweet and far. 
Or where the Lake's mild billows wash northern shore and 

Some — and I think none happier, — have never desired to 

They know the long sweet winters and the summer days 

On the hills of Chester County and in vales of the Brandy- 
As one of the wandering children I know what longing fills 
Our hearts for the Brandywine meadows and the Chester 

County hills ; 
I know how our thoughts and affections go back to the old 

home town 
And the streets serene and shady where we rambled up and 

down, — 
The town where the gentle virtues still flourish as of old. 
Where the folks are kind and friendly — kind folks with 

hearts of gold, — 
Kind folks who all too easily forgave our fun and noise. 
And the trials they had to suffer from the lively High 

School boys. 


Old Mme?^ Street 

Ah, vanished afar and forever are the happy old High 
School days, 

And a soft and tender remoteness enwraps them in golden 

The Present is blitlie and heroic, young hearts still true 
and warm. 

And every morning is splendid with promise and golden 
charm : — 

Yet O, how the Past and its glory are freighted with faery 

And Memorv's magical story is the dearest that ever was 

Then praised be the bountiful Father who blends in each 
human heart 

In part a most buoyant hope, and of dear recollection a 

AVho filleth our cups with wisdom, with joy and with wist- 
ful tears. 

And brighteneth with gleams from Heaven our swiftly van- 
ishing years. 


r\ WELL-BELOVED old Miner Street, in memory dear 
to me, — 

If Riley sang of "Lockerbie," may I not sing of thee, — 

The street where stood the home remembered still from 
childhood's hours, 

With its garden and its pear trees and its sweet old- 
fashioned flowers ; 

The rows of roofs and lofty chimney-stacks that stretched 

Like magic fairy mansions at the dreamy end of day ; 

And all the friendly neighbors whom in those old days we 


Old Miner Street 

Who patiently endured our pranks, those neiglibors kind 
and true, — 

The gentle dame who lived next door and made bright flow- 
ers of wax. 

And in her attic kept those never-fading flowers in stacks ; 

The mild old man across the street who mildly railed in 

Against the lads who shot their arrows at his window- 

And other neighbors down the street who fled from their 

When those same lads would hurl at them unripe pears 

green and hard. 

boyhood hours on Miner Street, — they seem so far 

And yet I still remember them as if but yesterday ! 

1 still recall the "barrels of fun" that made for many a 

Those golden years on Miner Street a long unending joy; 
I still recall the minstrel-show we gave on Miner Street, 
And how we let the ladies in at 7 cents a seat. 
And how the tight-rope broke and let me down, — I still 

The way those ladies laughed to see my ignominious fall ! 
And when the minstrels on the roof their "Middle-man" 

I thought those ladies laughing at his sorrow would have 

O, 'mid the thoughts of all the years the memories are 

Of boj^hood's happy days in that dear old West Chester 


O magic power of memory to wake the Long Ago, — 
The winter nights when all the street was white with gleam- 
ing snow ; 



Old Mme?^ Street 

The lovely April afternoons when robins warbling sweet 
Among the maples, made a fairy havnit of Miner Street ; 
And autumn's drowsy-hearted hours when that dear high- 

Avay old 
Was heaped for happy children with Oclober's leafy gold! 

I have wandered since those days in famous lands afar, 
I've seen old Dublin's winding ways lit by the sunset star, 
I've rambled in Alsatian towns and o'er the roads of 

Rome, — 
But still I love the little street of my first childhood home. 
The little maple-shaded street with friendly houses lined 
Of those angelic neighbors so long-sufTering and kind ; 
The street where oft we heard the songs so well-beloved 

and old, 
"Ben Bolt" and "Old Black Joe" and "Silver Threads 

Among the Gold" ; 
The little street that leaves the town and leads across the 

By fertile farms and silent woods and softly-singing rills ; 
The little street that welcomes back at golden eventide 
The weary lads of long ago who've wandered far and wide. 


When well-beloved old Miner Street leads forth across the 

By fertile farms and silent woods and softly-singing 

rills, — 
It winds at first beside the grove where roving oft of yore 

1 saw the scenes of old romance beside the streamlet's 

Where Rosalind and Robin Hood and Spenser's Red-Cross 

And Chaucer's Pilgrims passed adown the woodland's 

magic light. 
I wonder if they wander still for children wrapt in dream 
In Everhart's enchanted Grove by that enchanted stream ! 


Old Miner Street 

And now the street becomes a road and reaches soon the 

^Vllere flows the silver Brandywine by grassy mead and 

And there by Bower's paper-mill from woodlands winding 

It rambles down the sunny stretch where oft is heard the 

And happy laugh of happy boys who gaily dive and swim ; 

still I liear those lusty shouts arise in memory dim, 

1 still recall the cooling stream and balmy sun, as oft 
We plunged and plunged, then idled in the herbage green 

and soft. 
I still can hear the laughing lads who made us "chaw our 

Before we donned our clothes and headed home for Miner 

O happy-hearted boys were we at end of afternoon 
As on the homeward way we sang this happy -hearted tune : 

Green are the meadows. 

Soft are the shadows. 
Dear are the days hy old Brandywine^ s stream. 

Our little river 

Ever and ever 
Flows through the meadows and woods of our dream! 

Now in the gloaming 

Homeward we're roaming. 
Sadly we leave dear old Brandywine' s stream. 

Flow, little river. 

Ever and ever. 
Flow through the meadows and woods of our dream! 

And I remember how we went from Miner Street in June 
• And camped along the Brandywine beneath the summer 
moon, — 


Old Mifitr Street 

Also beneatli the sununer sun, wliich shone so bright and 

That, spite of our desire to work, we thought we'd better 

not ! 
And so we fished and loafed and dreamed, and dreamed and 

loafed and fished. 
And fondly hoped we'd get a bite, but found our hopes 

were dished, 
For fishing in the Brandywine, alas, is rather slow 
As all the fish except tough carp were killed off long ago. 

And I remember all the plates we didn't wash, and how 
Our dinner-tent was overturned and eaten by a cow, — 
That is, the tent or dinner was, I don't remember which, — 
But anyhoAA' that interview in retrospect is rich ! 
And I recall how one wet night the wind arose and blew 
Our blanket and our shoes away ; we were a sorry crew 
That sat and held the tent-poles up and waited long for 

With aching hearts and soaking suits, — and homes so far 

away ! 

O boyhood days of joy and fun, of boyhood hopes and 

Of wandering by woodland paths and fairy-haunted 

Of living through those days of gold among the meadows 

So glad of heart, so free from care, like Mother Nature's 

child, — 
Where well-beloved old INIiner Street led out across the 

Bv fertile farms and silent woods and softly running rills! 



Later Ferses 


C\ EVER sweeter swells tlie anthem, rolled 

Triumphant and august down that white nave, 
While heavenly music as from pipes of gold 
I Surges and sobs in wave on thunderous wave. 


'T'O WARDS heaven soar the stately triple spires, 

Type of the faith my English fathers held: — 
kinsfolk sleeping in those Midland shires. 
How have they ministered to you of eld ! 


L- 1 OW loneh- on her lonely isle she seems. 

Lifting proud towers against the lone wide sky, 
A lordly shrine enwrapt in lordly dreams, 
Wliile the unheeding centuries sweep by ! 



Y\/HAT benediction cheers the old-world street 

As pouring from the old-world Norman tower 
The great bells peal and clang at vesper hour 
In cadence wild and high and heavenly-sweet! 

Gloucester Cathedral 


T LOVE her for that Wordsworth held her dear, — 

That Tennyson first sang within her ken; 
The Gothic shrine most noble, most austere. 
Queen of the east and monarch of the fen. 


/^LD Wykeham's mighty minster I revere, 

^^^ That still the old-time faith inviolate keeps; 

But O its ancient aisles are doubly dear 

Where saintly-hearted Izaak Walton sleeps ! 


IVf EN live and die, and still this grey tower stands 

Mirrored eternally in Severn stream; 
Men live and die, and sleep by Severn sands, 

While this grey tower keeps watch above their dream. 


V[ OT monkish scroll, nor golden organ tone, 
Not book of bard, nor word of holy sage. 
Can argue like this mount of carven stone 
The faith and glory of the Middle Age. 


'T' HE gray-haired dean intones meek Cranmer's hymn, 

The mellow organ storms and peals on high. 
And solemn chants sweet as from seraphim 

Stream to the shadowy roofs and fade and die. 


C^ OD-GIVEN faith was theirs who founded sure 
This shrine august beside old Severn's shore; 
Long shall their mighty monument endure, 
By that faith sanctified forevermore. 



St. yohn s College Garde?i^ Oxford 


T T PWARD and upward soars the mighty spire 
High over Avon's slow and sleepy stream, 
And through transfigured clouds of golden fire 
It points men heavenward like some holy dream. 


1_J ERE Chaucer's pilgrims sought the martyr's tomb 

Here still the pilgrims throng from every isle, 
And in the Mother-Minster's ancient gloom 
Seek some foretaste of heaven's peace awhile. 


15 ENEATH these antique oaks on these green hills, 

In Spenser's far-off and idvllic day. 
Might "Colin Clout" and "Hobbinoll" have sat 
Beside their sheep and piped the hours away. 


A MID these quiet fields where Cromwell lived 

I muse upon the tragedy of fate 
That called him from his peaceful kinsfolk here 
To rule a realm 'mid Whitehall's gloomy state. 


T MMORTAL River, for one poet's sake 

I roam to-day beside thy drowsy stream: — 
Ah me, thy tranquil beauty still can charm 

As when it flowed through gentle Cowper's dream. 


I MMURED deep in the heart of that grey town. 
Meek scholarship's own paradise it seems, — 
So fragrant and so warm with old-world flowers, 
So wrapt around with reverie and dreams. 


S. Weir Mitchell 


{Decoration Day) 

Ty OSES and laurel for them 

Who sleep in the silence apart ; 
The valiant, the noble, the true ! 
They deemed not if praise or renown 
Should follow their deeds ; they but deemed 
That to die for the land of their love 
Was honor's most simple behest. 

Roses and laurel and soft 

Violets strew on their graves. 

Sorrowful flowers and sweet, 

For the valiant, the noble, the true. 

Tragic regret and wild tears, 

O, how you rise at the thought 

Of those fathers and brothers who lie 

In silence enduring and deep ! 

Roses and laurels for them ! 
Remembrance shall glorify still 
With each returning of May, 
The heroes who saved our dear land 
In the far-off and pitiful years. 

Roses and laurel for these, 

The veteran heroes who yet 

Linger among us on earth. 

Quiet and kindly old men — ,J 

Roses of friendship and love, " 

Laurels of tender regard 

For the valiant, the noble, the true ! 


T OVING and loved, he kept his heart of youth 

To warm the wisdom of his hale old age ; 
And with what charm and sympathy he drew 
"The days of old" upon his storied page! 


Ave Carissime 


The Grave of John Addington Symonds 

(In April, 1893, John Addington Sj^monds was laid to 
rest in the Protestant Cemetery in Rome, beside Shelley's 
Cor Cordium and not far from the violet-bank beneath 
which sleeps John Keats, on that sad and lovely hillside 
of which Shelley himself once wrote, "It might make one 
in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so 
sweet a place.") 

I KNEW not as I mused beside 

Yon storied "slope of green access" 
How soon another heart of hearts 
Must seek this sacred earth's caress. 

Yet even then with yearning eyes 
He waited for the kind s-vvift death ; 

In that high city of his dreams 

In peace he drew his latest breath. 

They bore him softly through the night 
Across the streets of silent Rome, 

And 'neath the old Aurelian walls 
The weary pilgrim found his home. 

He sleepeth here in holy peace. 

The weary pilgrim sleepeth here, 
Beside the Ariel whom he loved. 

With Adonais dreaming near. 

O kindly fate, whose gift exceeds 
The wistful scholar's dear desire — 

To sleep through the enduring years 
Beside his Shelley's soul of fire ! 


William Sanies 


CERENE as Plato's and as beautiful 

His words that fell upon our happy ears 
Day after day through all the golden term, 
Making more holy Delphi's holy name 
And Salamis and memoried Marathon, 
Building anew the Athens of our dreams, 
With Pericles, prince of that ancient world, 
And Sophocles the crown and flower of all. 
Great friendships and great memories seemed to throng 
About us as we listened to the friend 
Of Arnold and of gentle "Fitz," and knew 
How Ruskin and how Lowell loved him well. 

O kindly face lit with the radiant smile, 
O wistful eyes where ancient sorrows lay, 
And sympathy and crowning tenderness ; 
Deep, measured voice of wisdom and of charm. 
That spoke with what authority, what grace, — 
Stirring to noble aim and generous deed 
And sight of stars above the mist and gloom! 
No youthful heart so heedless but it felt 
The blessing of that noble eloquence. 

Gone is our master, and we seem to walk, 
His student-friends, about an alien world 
Uncheered, unsolaced, — save for memory 
Of his great spirit and his golden words 
August as Plato's and as beautiful. 


V[ OBLE and kindly teachers have I known ; 

Their names I cherish in an honored scroll, — 
But none more friendly-kind than William James, 
More noble or more reverent of soul. 

Of that loved dreamer, prophet, poet, sage. 

What memories I hold in heritage! 


''Balm fo?-" the Souls of Men'' 

He taught a faith all other faiths transcending, — 
How we may make this earth a heavenly place 

AVhere shineth Truth serene with Love unending, 
Illumined by the Spirit's radiant grace. 

When shall I see again the God in him 

Brighten and glorify our pathway dim! 

Through all the years, eternal ^^outh was his. 
The heart and soul of an unaging boy ; 

What glimpses did he give of his glad faith. 
What friendly tokens of his fadeless joy! 

O, I may walk no more, save in my dreams. 

With him along the shores of sunny streams. 


(In William James' laboratory, a friend asked: 

"What are you doing there?" 

"I am seeking balm for the souls of men," replied the 


f^alm for the souls of men, — 

He sought for it through all his mortal years, 
To heal men's heart-hurts and to dry their tears, 
To make them whole again. 
— O kindly master with the deep dark eyes. 
And didst thou find, this side of Paradise, 

Balm for the souls of men? 

We saw thee many an hour. 

In that old Harvard hall 'neath bowering trees, 

Ever with infinite pains yet quiet ease 

And heaven-sent power. 

Questing for Light and Truth. 

— O high of heart and with thy fadeless youth. 

In memory I see thee searching still 

For that medicament for mortal ill ! 


Gentlest and Kindliest 

Balm for the souk of men, — 
How from thy moving voice, thy eager pen, 
It flowed, — we apprehend, who cherish yet 
Those radiant hours, nor can forget 
Thy glorious searching on the seas of time 
For that whose blissful worth I ma}'^ not tell 
In my poor perishable rime, — 
Albeit I loved thee well, 
And in my dreaming see thee seek again 
Balvi for the souls of men. 


(In Memory of Horace Howard Furness) 

nPHE gentlest and the kindliest of men 

Has gone at last from out our mortal ken, 
But not from out our memories that keep 
Vigils of love beside his tranquil sleep. 
And in this season of the fallen leaf 
Pour round his name our elegiac grief. 

For his own self we loved this honored one. 

And thereunto we loved him as the son 

Of that old patriot sire* who walked these ways 

And fought for truth in old heroic days, 

The patriot sire whose more than ninety years 

Won all men's reverence, won all men's tears. 

Large measure of that father's lofty spirit 

Did he the ever-loyal son inherit, — 

The old-time courtesy, the simple creed, 

The cheery kindliness of word and deed; 

The charm, the friendliness, the humor quaint 

That made him seem half human and half saint ;- 

Thus cherishing and handing on the fame 

Of an illustrious and noble name. 

*Rev. William Henry Furness 


Gentlest and Kindliest 

Who, would not deem illustrious a long 

And happy service to the Prince of Song, 

A service that in ripeness of his days 

Had gained for Horace Furncss all men's praise, 

All men's regard for his so splendid part 

In celebrating Shakespeare's glorious art ! 

So deeply had he pondered Shakespeare's page 

And mused and dreamed in that resplendent age, 

Its very thought and language came to be 

A part of him, — its sane philosophy 

That looked upon the world with genial glance 

And saw in simplest things a high romance. 

Yet deeply felt the tragedy and strife 

That underlie the mystery of life. 

Hamlet the dreamer, Lear distraught and blind, 
Imperial Prospero, bright Rosalind 
And all her lovely sisters, Jaques wise. 
And Falstaff of prodigious wit and size, — 
Or grave or gay, of high or low degree. 
He loved them all with genial sympathy. 
Knew them familiarly and drew from each 
Some rare conceit, some gentle turn of speech, 
So that with him we truly seemed to be 
Made free of Shakespeare's matchless company. 

Now have that kindly soul, that noble heart 

Become of immortality a part. 

Enriching with their wealth some vaster sphere 

And shedding blessings surely there as here. 

That cherished name shall now forever be 

A beautiful and gracious memory 

Of one who brightened the gray walks of earth 

With sunny friendliness and cheerful mirth. 

No more his noble books, his well-loved flowers 
Shall minister unto his fruitful hours; 


No move [\\c I'oiivorso with its wit Mini tjraco. 
The heart V haiui-chisp aiul the boaiuiiiy; face; 
No moro tlie tlioui;ht t'uhioss that brmii;ht its cheer 
To humblest souls ami made them hold him dear; 
For he the gentlest, kindliest of men 
Has gone at last from out our mortal ken,, 
But not from out our memories that keep 
Vigils of love around his quiet sleep. 


{A Mi-niorif of Proft'ssor AJbfrt Iltnri/ Smijth) 
l^FA'OND the sighing boughs that snow 

Their blossoms on thj early grave, 
I hear thy voice — long Junes ago — 
Far on the swinging ocean Avave. 

Long Junes ago — ah, what delights. 
And how did youthful hearts rejoice 

To listen through long dreamy nights. 
Hearing thy golden-cadeneed voice! 

Long dreamy nights when all around 

The golden moonlight softly fell. 
Anil poesy's enchanting sound 

Wove from thy lips a dreamy spell. 

Fnchanting sound, enchanting lore. 

Long Jvuies ago, in soft mid-sea! 
Enchanted, too, Killarney's shore. 

Whose pensive charm we shared with thee. 

Killarney's shore where "sweet and far" 
The horns of elf-land faintly blew. 

And every storied "clirt" and scar" 

AVith thee for guide we swiftly knew. 

Gray cliff and scar through endless years 
Stand up and take the storm and sun; 

Oh, why nuist ilow our wistful tears 
When Heaven calls a gifted one! 


Henrietta Emiey Walter 

Our wistful tears for thee must flow, 
And wistful hearts must grateful be 

For golden niglits — long Junes ago — 
Made magical by song and thee. 


r^ RIEF lies in countless sister-hearts to-day ; 

Mute is the widowed cause : 
A nation mourns for her who led the way 
Toward Heaven's ampler laws, — 

For her who waged a ceaseless war and long 

'Mid consecrating tears, 
Assailing all the battlements of Wrong 

Through sad, unresting years. 

She passeth, but her memory shall live, 

Her cherished name endure. 
Ah, would that God to earth might oftener give 

Such saintly souls and pure ! 


T THINK there is less sunshine in the day 
Since she the sunny-hearted went away. 
Less cheerfulness for us who loved to greet 
Our cheery, genial friend along the street, — 
Now she has gone away. 

What though ungentle storms might round her roll, 
They could not rob the sweetness from her soul ; 
For as the wind-tost tree puts forth green leaf. 
She ever gathered courage out of grief; 
She ever grew in kindliness and love, — 
Dear qualities, all other gifts above; — 
So sweet she was of soul. 


Occiiri Reveries 

True heart, wo I'duiuI it haiii to soo hor jro, — 
Our sunny friend ; and yot wo suroly know 
How after life slie hath lier bhssful rest, — 
True heart, whose meniorv indeeil is blest. 
With us who loved her so. 


*V*?o ihc great gratf icaxH's mail roll 
Fro»i till- heart of that sombre sea; 
I oh/// K'no7c that its secret soul 
Is al-'ni to the soul in me." 

— Hoxvard J . Truman 

r\ ANCIENT Sea ! once more 

^■^^ Upon the sands of thy wave-smitten shore 

I stand. Thine olden harmonies I hear : 

Like those of yesteryear 

Are they, — and yet unlike, for passing time 

Hath made them but more lovely to mine ear. 

And as I list to the recurrent rhyme 

Of thy green billows, or delighted ga/.e 

On snowy sail and purple cloud, — 

I muse on those glad early days 

When first I looked on thee 

And hearkened to tiiy surging voices loud, — 

Vast and unaging Sea ! 

From my far inland lunue 

Near one dear stream in lands of waving wheat, 

I came and heard the music wild and sweet. 

Where on long leagues of coast thv billows beat 

And fling their wreaths of spumy foam. 

Exultant and rememberable joy 

Was mine ! — A happy boy. 

Along the banks of that dear lumieland stream 

Oft would I lie and dream, 


Ocean Reveries 

Lulled bv its murmurous and gentle tones 

Where over cool white stones 

It danced and sang; and in my fancy's eye 

I saw its waters join the distant deep. 

But never till I saw the surge and sweep 

Of thy dark tides, and heard the cry 

Of white-winged gulls, or watched thy sunset sky, 

Or saw tlie silent sails fade o'er thy rounding steep ;- 

not till then did there come home to me, 

To me an acolyte in Beauty's halls. 
And one of Wonder's youngest thralls, 
The mystery and glor^' of the mighty sea ! 


At this calm hour of noon 

1 rove along the curving beach 

By wave-worn rock and drifted dune, 

To gaze upon the ocean's sparkling reach 

And hear the surges weave their sombre rune. 

Beside the bar the fishing vessels lie. 

While the bronzed fishers count their finn^' spoil 

And rest them from their toil. 

The veering sea-gull's lonely cry 

Echoes unceasingly: 

The languid billows rise and fall, 

Lapping the weedy timbers of yon pier 

With pulses soft and musical; 

And high o'erhead the mists of cloud-land rear 

Their snowy masses, pile on pile, — 

A heavenly archipelago, 

Isle after airy isle. 

I gaze across the deep, and lo ! 

On the horizon far and dim, 

A noble ship with canvas spread. 

Stately and beautiful is she, 

And white as is the foam of the caressing sea. 


Ocean Reveries 

Too soon, jilas ! below the shadowy i"ii»i 

Of that fair ocean-meadow she has fled, 

Veiling" her spotless beauty's pride. 

Like to some rei>al swan that would not be espied. 

To Avhat remotest islands of the sea, 

O full sailed vessel, dost thou hold thy way? 

To what blue Adriatic bay 

Within whose circling shore 

Was sheltered many a lordly argosy 

Of golden Venice in the years of yore? 

Or through long days of storm and shine 

And wan, still nights 'neath stranger stars. 

By reefs and buried bars, 

Ploughing and ever ploughing through the crested brine. 

Wilt thou at last attain 

The beauteous islands of the Indian main ? 

Perchance, majestic ship, thou art 

Bound to some Libyan mart. 

To trade in Afric's ivory and gold, 

Or what the diamond-quarry yields ; 

And thine unresting way wilt hold 

Through green Sargossa's weedy fields. 

O'er southern oceans where the sun doth blaze 

LTnpityingly thro' long, long torrid days, — 

Where sea-birds strange and lovely have their home, 

Skimming the languorous foam 

With sleepy wing of green or golden hue ; 

Where through the sultry night 

O'er liquid wastes all silver-bright 

Thy prow shall cut a path of livid blue, 

While curious monsters of the deep 

About thy sides with baleful eyes do peep 

And thy brave mariners affright. 

Thy destined port, fair ship, I may not know, 
But still of thee I dream ; 


Ocean Reveries 

And thou^li the currents of tlie ocean-stream 

Have carried thee beyond my ken 

With sweeping flow, 

And by these shores to fare again 

May never be thy lot, — 

Within one heart thou shalt not be forgot. 

God speed thee on thy way. 

And grant thee voyages safe until thy latest day ! 


This sunny morn 

The breakers washed me up a curved shell, 

Of its small tenant long forlorn, — 

An empty and deserted cell. 

I held it to mine ear, 

And from its purple chambers seemed to hear. 

Faint as the echoes of a fairy bell. 

Strange tidings from that hidden world 

Down in the emerald deeps. 

Far from the billows' fretful moan 

And sobbing monotone, — 

Wide ocean-floors empearled. 

Where fair sub-tidal forests wave 

Their noiseless leafage in pellucid streams; 

Where from the walls of many a coral cave 

The soft sea-lantern glows, 

Shedding its phosphor beams 

On sponges, lucent fronds, and ooozy weeds. 

And all the viewless life that grows 

In those unfathomed ocean meads, — 

Fantastic realms more fair than have been sung 

In old poetic story. 

This fragile shell, methinks, hath clung 
Unto the foot of some vast promontory 
Deep-rooted in the underseas. 
About whose rocky bases curled 
The vegetation of the nether world, 


Ocean Reveries 

But on whose lofty crown the tossing trees 

Moaned in the constant breeze. 

Tall sentinels of some lone shore, 

They little dreamed 

That far beneath the wintr}^ roar 

Of those chill barking seas 

Eternal summer gleamed ! 

Perchance came one sad day 

When this wee denizen 

Of that hoar cliff's deep base was torn away 

By some wild current keen, 

That severed with impetuous rage 

Its ancient anchorage. 

Up, up 'twas carried then. 

Through azure solitudes and aqueous glooms, 

Past loveliest ocean-blooms 

Colored with amber-gold and tremulous green. 

And tincts that but the diver's eye hath seen ; 

Thence whirling high and far 

Toward this our upper day, 

At length it rested on a pebbled bar ; 

And there by ruthless theft ; 

Of ravening fish the life was reft i 

From this wee, harmless thing, j 

And but the shell was left, — j 

Within whose hollow cavicles still ring, J 

Resounding sorrowfully a3^e 

The echoes of its dole. 

I'll bear thee to mine inland home, fair shell. 

Far from the thunderous roll 

And roaring of the salty swell. 

There thou shalt chant for me 

Thine endless elegy, 

Soft harmonies to soothe the soul, 

'Mid dusty uplands whispering, sweet as sleep, 


Ocean Reveries 

Cool memories of thy dreamcd-of home 

Beneath the bubbling foam 

Of the complaining billows of the deep. 


For two long days and nights a storm hath raged, 

And by this sounding shore 

The angry armies of the deep have waged 

Mad internecine war. 

Ah, fierce and bitter was their fight 

Upon the tossing champaign wild and white ! 

But now the serried waves have spent their force, 

Sunk is each watery hill ; 

Though dimly still 

The dying cadence of their sad remorse 

Moans on the wearied strand. 

This quiet evening from the tawny sand 

I gather gleaming pebbles many a one, 

Where yester-eve those harried pebbles spun 

And chafed amid the churning flood 

That whelmed the upper shore 

With racing sheets of frothy scud, 

And strewed the beach with graceful ocean-grass 

And purple weeds in tangled mass, — 

The lovely wreckage of the deep-sea floor. 

This gathered ocean-grass, these pebbles fair, 

Peaceful memorials shall be 

Of that fierce strife of the embattled sea. 

They shall recall to me 

The swift on-coming of the gale; 

The winds that now with sorrow seemed to cry, 

And now loud-trumpeting their boisterous glee; 

The clanking fog-bell's iron agony; 

The ships with creaking mast and ghastly sail 

Fast fading in the misty air, 


Ocean Reveries 

Seeking for safety on the open sea ; 

The groaning piers ; the low gray sky 

Streaked with the driving rain ; 

The screaming fish-hawks hastening to the lee 

Of yonder towering rock, 

Against whose rugged sides the seas may knock 

Long centuries in vain ; 

The mighty waves inrolling from the main 

Crested with toppling foam, 

Moaning and muttering on their way 

From their mid-ocean home, 

Like helpless giants rushing to their doom, 

And at the last 

Crumbling and tottering in ruin vast. 

And pounding on the beach with thunderous boom 

And clouds of seething spray ! 

But wildest anger is the soonest past ; 

So with that glorious storm, — 

Glorious in beauty and in splendid power ! 

The quietude of this calm vesper hour, 

These breezes warm, 

Are like the stillness in some minster vast 

After the stately anthem hath uprolled 

Unto high heaven from a thousand throats. 

The black bell-buoy that so lately tolled 

Across the storm, now voiceless floats 

On the low-heaving, glassy swell 

Of that wide silver, silent main. 

The ships that fled the tempest, once again 

Display their sails afar : 

Touched by the sunset's spell. 

They seem, — mast, sail, and spar, — 

Like phantom ships that swim in golden mist ; 

For lo ! the splendors of the dying day 

Transform the sky. 


Ocean Reveries 

An Eldorado fair, 

A sea of billowy gold, hangs in mid-air, 

En-isled with cloudy amethyst, 

And bordered round with many an opal bay. 

To which warm rosy rivers flow. 

Laving with molten fire the crimson capes. 

E'en while I look on that enchanted show 

The gorgeous clouds assume strange shapes. 

And towering high 

They fill the arching sky 

With pageantry fantastical. 

Until I see in that majestic rack 

The mythic monsters of the zodiac, 

Moving in solemn, slow processional 

Toward that far point where heaven's violet verge 

Dips drowning in the ocean's sleepy surge. 

O for a Turner's brush, a Shelley's pen. 

To paint that fairest scene vouchsafed to men, 

A sunset by the ocean shore, — 

Its visionary spell. 

Its glory and its sense of dreamy peace, 

Its loveliness ineffable! 

Too wondrous is that beauty to endure ; 

And even now it dies away. 

Its evanescent splendors cease; 

The soft dream-rivers roll no more. 

And vanished is each lustrous bay ; — 

All, all are gone! 

Then tranquil night begins her sway; 

And silvery, cold, and pure. 

The stars are climbing one by one 

The azure steeps, 

Up to the firmament's enroofing dome. 

Till all their vast white galaxy 

Is mirrored in the dreaming deeps ; — 


Ocean Reveries 

While still the drowsy foam, 
Along the argent edges of the sea, 
With liquid murmur low 
Plashes in its eternal ebb and flow. 


Like the remembered music of old songs. 

Gray Ocean, is thy voice to me, 

Chanting thy plaintive minstrelsy 

Through the enduring years ! 

Wave after plunging wave prolongs 

The same wild cadences that charmed the ears 

Of men of old heroic days. 

Immortal Homer hymned thy praise, 

Singing the wondrous wanderer divine, 

Ulysses, — faring o'er the perilous brine. 

Sad mariner ! what voyage can measured be 

With his in legend or in history? 

Not Argo's with its fabled fleece, 

Nor his who sought to found the Latian line, 

Nor his of Genoa whose high-souled quest 

Bore him to unknown oceans of the west. 

Thy billows ring to this our day 

With echoes of eternal Greece, — 

Chios and Cos and green Corinthian bay. 

Vergil's resounding and imperishable lay 

Gave to thy name an added glory ; 

And through the ages long. 

In epic or in figured allegory, 

Thy waves have echoed through the poet's song. 

Wonder, and might, and majesty are thine! 

And beauty changeless through the changing years. 

Proud states and kingdoms fade into the past, 

Bewept of human tears. 

Forgotten is each vanished earthly shrine : 

Thou only dost endure, 


Ocean Reveries 

Illimitably vast, 

Based on foundations old and sure; — 

God's symbol of eternity, 

And type of unimaginable power, 

O'erwhelming in one little hour 

The mightiest armadas of the sea. 

E'en as that single billow yesterday 

Swept foaming up the strand 

And unrelenting washed away 

The little forts and pyramids of sand 

So fondly built by children in their play. 

From the surf-thunders of thy stony beaches, 

From the far voices of the central sea 

Where white, reef-nested birds untamed and free 

With tireless pinions sweep 

Above those solitary reaches, — 

There comes a message vast and deep. 

To wearied man it calls, 

To man enwearied with the fret and care. 

The hurry and the heat. 

That make these vaunted latter days unsweet. 

Across the world it thrills ; 

'Tis echoed by the forests and the hills, — 

By tenderest flowers fair. 

Ah, blinded ones, will ye remain the thralls 

Of custom and of cant? 

Shall hoary Ocean chant 

Its poetries unheeded? Shall it roll, 

Yet rouse no echo in the sleeping soul? 

Must nature's pleadings unregarded be? 

Thy shoreward and familiar places, 

O many-centuried Sea, 

Beloved are and fair ; 

Yet to my fancy, as it seems, 

The imap-cs that we behold in dreams 

Most beauteous are and rare. 


T/ic Son or of the Nautilin 

So Avhon I rovo oiu'o inoro tho homeland hills 

Noiir one ilear stream in lautls oi wavinjjj wheat,- 

TJie Brandvwine, fed from a tiiousand rills. 

Winding bv willowed banks with music sweet, — 

And think upon the unseen spaces 

Of thv mid-deeps remote, — 

Visions shall i;reef me of the mai>;ie boat 

Of tliat wee mariner of sunnner seas. 

The Pearly Nautilus, — upon whose shell 

The sun hath wrought, the rainbow laid its spell. 

The loveliest of all the creatures stranj^e 

That o'er the sea's blue territories range ; — 

And borne on some imaginary breeze, 

Faintly resounding on the ear. 

The strophes of its silver song I'll hear: 

Song of the Nautimts 

My silent way I am plying 

Afar from the haunts of men. 
Over the billows flying 

In the lonely sea bird's ken ; 
Far from the shelving beaches, 

Far from the breakers' roar. 
Out on the wide sea-reaches 

Trailing my amber oar. 
Cradled among the surges 

Here in the sapphire sea, 
T drift where the warm wind urges 

My elfin argosy. 
Waving my streamers airy 

I stem the silver tide, 
And rove by the lands of faery 

AVhere the winsome mermen bide. 
O'er emerald surges swinging 

For many a magic mile, 
I hear the sirens singing, 

I sail by Circe's isle. 



But wlxjfi the wavf.'H arc weaving 

Their symphonies of woe, 
I flee from tlieir sombre grieving 

To the twilight deeps below. 
Then when the storm is over, 

Up from my shadowy home 
I wander, a fearless rover, 

To rock in the shimmering foam. 
From the noise of the world's bewailing 

My happy life is free, 
In the golden sunlight sailing 

Alone on the lovely sea. 


'T'HE farm-life of five hundred years ago. 

Its sowings and its harvests, here are told; 
O what ancestral love of country life 
Awakes in me at this rich tale unrolled ! 


TTHE sight and tang of these red beauties here. 
On London fruit-stalls, set my heart athrill. 
And for a space I feel a western wind 

Blown from old orchards on some homeland hill. 


C^ OLDEN and rosy vapors float like dreams 
And glorify each tower and palace old; 
And all these strange and silent water-ways 
Are wondrous avenues of running gold. 


I AND of my fathers, — many an hour I longed. 

Watching from Strasburg's walls thy mountains blue, 
To see the hour, now haply close at hand. 

When thou to France allegiance might renew ! 


The Greek Dancer 

r^ OETHE and Schiller, Mozart, Wagner, Kant : 
How is your noble land of Thought and Song 
Betrayed by men who sneer at solemn oaths 

And plunge the world in woe, nor hold it wrong ! 


OO late in life beginning? — Yes, what tales 

Throughout his middle years he might have wrought ! 
Yet who would lose the rich autumnal gold. 

E'en though with summer's largess it was bought? 


nn HE old august heroic voice I hear 

Chanting afresh of England's glorious prime. 
In rolling measures of harmonious rime 

Worthy of Milton's high memorial year. 



TP HROUGH drowsy hours the warm old Garden throws 

Upon the drowsy air its summer sweets, 
While here I ponder on how warm a heart 
Of musing passion through these pages beats. 

^AVORING of balsam-breath and salt sea airs, 

And sweet with scents from dreamy gardens old. 
They tell of happy years and friendships deep ; 
They show a loving soul, a heart of gold. 


{A Pastorale) 

7/1/ HAT vision of pastoral charm do we see, — 

What maenad or maiden of Thessaly she, — 
Terpsichore's self can it he? 

She moves to sylvan music, girt with flowers 
And flinging balmy blossoms as she moves 


The Greek Dancer 

With rhythmic steps across the luscious green; 
And for an hour we dream of Hellas old, 
Of woodland ways and woodland harmonies 
And far-off fabled visions long forgot. 
Softly she moves, and O so wistfully, 
The gentle, silent shepherd-girl ; no words, 
No joyous song, no silver laughter hers, — 
Only the charm of dancing loveliness, 
Of flying color and of scattered flowers 
And faery ribbons fluttering in the breeze. 

O shepherd-lads, pipe us, pipe us your fill 
Of mellow-breathed measures from Dorian hill; 
Your pastoral measures pipe still! 

Now like a young Bacchante cometh she. 
With vine-leaves garlanded and purple grapes, 
In wild abandon down the orchard slopes ; 
And now she passes on with stately flow, 
A summer-queen among the golden sheaves. 
Laden with golden corn and harvest flowers 
And wisps of hay, — like to some pastorale 
Shaped by a Tuscan painter long ago. 

daffodil girl from the valleys of Greece, — 
O fresh from the realms of Arcadian peace, — 
Ah vie, must thy dancing e'er cease i 

A Past long-dead awakens at the touch 

Of her most magical, most gracious art; 

Green Dorian woodlands, vales of Sicily, 

And old Italian harvest-fields once more 

Pass with authentic grace before our sight. 

— O dance forever, wistful Dryad, dance 

To Doric music of the rustic pipe, — 

That hearts grown weary may once more grow warm 

And thrill with olden raptures such as stirred 

Theocritus hearing the shepherd flutes 


yls Winter Wanes 

'Mid plaint of doves and drowsy bleat of sheep 
Far in the vernal fields of Sicily ! 
Dance on, O dance, and weave thy pensive charm 
Round hearts growTi weary; fling thy flowery spells 
As Perdita once flung in mid-wood green! 
And though thy joyous presence fade away 
With evening's light, — let not the spirit lose 
The blissful memory of thy grace, thy charm. 
Thy sisterhood with sylvan gods of old. 

Alas, she has vanished! No more is she seen; 

The shepherds are trailing their pipes o^er the green; 

We grieve for our lost shepherd-queen. 


/^H, let us fondly dream, as Winter wanes, 
^"^ Of his sweet child the sunny Spring, 
And lone: to see her rove adown the lanes 
Where early blue-birds sing! 

Not many be the days ere we shall hear 
The brooks take up their ancient song. 

In purling cadence soft and silver-clear 
The forest-side along; 

And see the fragile crocus lift her face 

From out her bed of freshening sod. 
Living her little life with happy grace 

And thankfulness to God. 

The jocund robin from the tree will trill 

His roundelays of vernal mirth. 
And odors sweet arise where farmers till 

The brown and mellow earth. 

The first brave swallow o'er the silent pond 

Will skim with dip of rapid wing. 
And fill the beechen solitudes beyond 

With tender twittering. 


To the South Wind 

The water-willows budding by the brook 

Will arch it with an amber screen, 
And the long-cloistered scholar leave his book 

For forest-alleys green. 

Then grieve not, ye with drooping hearts who pine; 

Soon will young Spring renew her birth, 
Upspringing joyously as Proserpine 

From out the fragrant earth. 

Not always will the hills be hid in snow. 

Not always will the skies be gray; 
Beyond our little hour of present woe 

There waits some brighter day! 



I EAR South Wind, O sweeet is thy blowing, 
Sweet is thy murmur by grove and creek. 
Here where the air was filled with snowing 

And the world was white but yester-week. 
Dear South Wind, when the Winter dying 

Looked on a land that was bare and drear, 
AU for thee were our fond hearts sighing. 
All for thee and thy sunny cheer. 

Hail, O hail to thee, blithe new-comer ! 

Out of the dreamy south-lands blown, 
Out of the lands of endless summer 

Far in the realms of the soft mid-zone; 
Where all the air with song is laden. 

And sunlight sleeps on the purple vine, 
Where the shepherd pipes to the listening maiden 

In drowsy noons 'neath the shady pine. 
A thousand charms from those lands thou'rt bringing. 

Waking the flowers on heath and hill, 
Filling the forest-side with singing, 

With sweeter music each silver rill. 


The Return of Spring 

Dear South Wind, O sweet is thy blowing, 
Sweet is thy murmur by grove and creek. 

Here where the air was filled with snowing 
And the world was white but yester-week. 

r^ OME Spring, O Spring, sweet morning of the year, 

Too long delaying in thy pensive dreams; 
Come with thy festal mirth, thy woodland cheer. 

Thy tender leafage and thy lucid streams. 
Bid laggard Winter go unto his rest. 

And pelt him thither with thy rathest flowers. 
That like the dying sun in rosy west 

He know a glory in his latest hours. 
Yea, let him go ; for thee our hearts are yearning, — 
Awake, awake, fair Spring, and gladden earth with thy 
returning ! 

Come with thy soft and fragrant April rains 

And overbrim the pure, sweet-watered rills 
That murmur through the meadows' grassy plains 

And tinkle down the hollows of the hills. 
Come, waken with thy sweetly-breathing spell 

The golden daffodils and violets blue. 
And gem with joyous tears the crocus-bell. 

And fill the tulip's cup with silver dew, 
O down the valleys let us see thee straying, 
And in the greenwood let us hear thy fairy music playing ! 

Awake, and with thee wake each vernal thing, 

Each wildwood bloom and every budding spray: 
And may we hear the sylvan warblers sing 

Whilst thou dost show new beauties each green day. 
With thy soft airs bring pale anemones, 

Those tender sweetlings of the dawning year, 
And baby-buds upon the willow trees, — 

And all the verdure nature holds most dear. 
Then wake, delay no more, O sweet new-comer. 
Thou gentle younger sister of the golden-hearted Summer ! 


Aprir s Here! 


CINCE Chaucei-'s antique day when joyously 

He sang of April's birds and fragrant showers 
In green old England, this most tender month 
Has been the theme of song. V^Hio would not pay 
Full tribute to young April's wondrous charm ! 
Her mingled smiles and tears, her sun and rain. 
Her fresh and luscious herbage, little leaves 
And first frail wood-flowers, ever touch the heart 
In each succeeding Spring with fuller joy. 
Most wilful, most beloved, doth April seem 
Of all the year's twelve children, tenderest 
And deepest dowered with wonder, of them all ! 


IJOW beautiful it seems, — 

A day in April, when the breeze 
Is blowing fresh and sweet, 
After a night of dripping rain ; 
And in some lofty tree, — 
Some sycamore or oak or odorous pine, — 
A joyous bird is shouting. 
Shouting his jubilance abroad 
In the fresh-breathing wind! 
Hope and happiness are in his song. 

It is blossom time! 

It is nesting time! 

Blow, blow thy flute, happy bird; 
Blow and warble and shout 
In a rushing rapture of song. 
And tell the waking world 
That April's here! 


The Blackbird 


/^N many a green and golden hill 

Bloom violet and daffodil; 
The trees forget their wintry grief 
And put forth leaf by tender leaf; 
In many a moist secluded dale 
Blow aconite and wind-flowers pale; 
The blackbird in the hemlock high 
Utters his sweet delicious cry. 

Shall we not praise the Father, then, 
For these enchanting gifts to men ! 


/^F all our birds I love the blackbird well; 

The blackbird is my joy. 

When I was but a boy 
I came beneath the blackbird's fairy spell, — 
O can you wonder that I love him well ! 

Beside the Brandywine I heard his song. 

In morns of early March; 

He fluted from the larch 
In magic tones that held me long and long. 

In those wild morns of March. 

It seemed no mortal music that I heard, 
In those sweet mornings wild. 
I was a spell-bound child, 

Rapt by the rapture of a simple bird, — 
A fairy-haunted child! 

O, can you wonder that I love him well, — 

That each returning Spring 

I yearn to hear him sing 
And thrill me with his old remembered spell. 
With that old magic that I love so well ! 





p) OBIN, dear, 

With thy voice of gold, 
Sing to me now 
As in days of old ! 
Sing to me now 
From thy crimson breast 
Glad-heart songs 
That I love the best, — 
Thy simple joy 
In the golden grass 
And the elfin winds 
That whisper and pass. 
Thy simple faith 
In the bloom of May, 
Dogwood wild 
And apply spray, 
All the Springtime's 
Joy untold, — 
Sing it, Robin, 
With voice of gold! 


ITH flush of buds on every spray 
The fields and groves are bright with May, 

And every hill and grove is seen \ 

Clad all in fresh and luscious green ; ' 

The gentle sheep and placid cows 

On sweet and tender herbage browse. 

And little lambs disport and bleat 

By rivulets of water sweet. 

The woods with half-grown foliage seem 

Wrapt in a soft and misty dream, 

And all the land in blithesome May 

Seems deckt for one long holiday. 




nPHE bright soft skies, the gentle airs of June, 

Its fields of daisies nodding in the breeze. 
Its fragrant hav-fields ripening for the scythe 
On upland slopes, its clover drowsy-sweet 
With storcd-up honey, — who can e'er forget 
These charms of mild mid-June, or who desire 
More beauteous memories than those of days 
When great Avhitc clouds sail over wheat-fields green. 
With sweep of mighty shadows, and afar 
Fade down behind the hill, while every hedge 
And leafy grove is musical with song. 
With twitter and cheeping of the joyous birds, 
Heart-full of sunshine. O the magic hours 
Unmatched, of this all-perfect month. 
Young golden-hearted June, queen of the year ! 


nPHE land is dreamy and the air is sweet 
With hum of reapers in the golden wheat. 

Far off the robins call at early morn 
With fairy notes as from a fairy horn. 

The bees drone round the silken hollyhocks 
And murmur 'mid the beds of purple phlox. 

The locusts in the lofty branches croon, 

And frogs in marshy lowlands chant their tune. 

By country streams through all the sunny day 
The bonnie country children romp and play. 

From spreading orchard-branches bent and old 
The harvest-apples hang their fruity gold. 

In calm content and peace all things abide 
In this serene and calm midsununer tide. 






nn HE breeze is stirring, small wings are whirring. 

And up from the heart of the glade 
Soft mists arise from the sacrifice 

Which the dew to the dawn has made; 
And sweet and clear to the listening ear 

Come the matiiLs of winged throngs, 
And the leafy woof of the forest roof 
Is thrilled with their wondrous songs. 

Each lily white and poppy bright 

Is wrapt in a golden dream; 
From the regal rose one petal blows 

And drifts on the lazy stream. 
That happy hummer of soft midsummer, 

The golden-belted bee, 
Is droning over wide fields of clover 

And basks in that fragrant sea. 

Fireflies are brightening with elfin lightning 

The dusk of the drowsy eve, 
While afar is heard the lonely bird 

That doth ever grieve and grieve, — 
The soft-eyed dove whose notes of love 

Betray a hopeless breast, 
A song of sorrow with no to-morrow 

Of joy for its sad unrest. 

The lucent light of the queen of night 

Is burning at heaven's crest. 
And high and far in her silver car 

She sails to the sleepy west. 
But all too soon the lovely moon 

Will leave the heavens dim. 
As she dips below the isles of snow 

And meets the world's blue rim. 



QOFT August mists drift o'er the drowsy fields 

And wrap the land in peace ; no sound is heard 
Save when some solitary crow far off 
Calls with sad note, or when the lone wood-dove 
Grieves by the woodland edge. The vast white clouds 
In peaceful navies drift across the sky 
Wliere high and far a lonely buzzard wings 
His lonely flight. The fragrant gardens glow 
With flowery splendor, and by sleepy streams 
The soft-eyed cattle browse in velvet grass 
Beneath old willows, — while the poppied dream 
Of August broods o'er all the silent land. 


T) Y what signs do we know September here, 
Most drowsy, dreamy month of all the year.'' 

Across the quiet fields of yellowing corn 
The crows are calling in the misty morn. 

In sunny beds of plilox the droning bees 
Are sipping dripping sweetness to the lees. 

The purple grapes make golden all the air 
With musky odors languorous and rare. 

Folded in mystery at slumbrous noon 
The far-off hazy hillsides seem to swoon. 

From orchard boughs ripe apples one by one 
Drop and lie mellow in the misty sun. 

Borne on soft winds the thistle's downy seeds 
Float o'er wide meadows rich with pungent weeds. 

Down from the lofty gum-trees quaint and old 
Drift silently the leaves of red and gold. 



In tranquil fields the cattle lie and dream 
By the green marge of many a lazy stream. 

By these signs do we know September here, 
Most dream}', drowsy month of all the year, 


C\ SPIRIT brooding by the sleepy stream 

Or pacing down the leaf-strewn woodland aisle, 
I think no trouble can disturb thy dream. 
No sorrow shade the sweetness of thy smile, 

For the full-ripened year 
Hath won rich largess from each teeming field; 
The orchard-boughs droop with their ruddy yield. 
And down the wind come sounds of autumn carols clear 

Far, far away thy sister April stands. 

Her balmy eyes the home of happy tears, — 

Young violets and bloodroot in her hands : 
Ah, can it be that faintly-borne she hears 

The robin's elfin flute 
Blown in thy waning forests? Doth soft grief 
Stir at her heart because the yellowing leaf 

Is falling and thy glades too soon stand lorn and mutt 

Yea, grief may stir her soft and girlish heart. 
Queen as she is of fresh and budding flowers. 
Not so with thee, dear Spirit, — far apart 
Thou reckonest the drowsy-footed hours ; 

To thee sweet is the tune 
Of pensive winds that rob the swa^'ing rose 
And shower the turf with fragrant-petalled snows ; 
And sweet the chestnuts dropping 'neath the hunter" 

Thou smilest still, — and lo, in every dell 
The asters and the regal golden-rod 


Autumn Rain 

Drowse da}^ bv day beneath thy charmed spell 
And greet tlie scented wind with dreamy nod. 

Ah me, thou smilest still ! — 
All day thy wide champaii^ns lie bathed in mist, 
Hung o'er with clouds of vaporous amethyst 

That fail at eve and fade beyond the lonely hill. 

Thou smilest still, — as in the loved far days 
AVhen youn^ Persephone with startled call 

Was rapt from Knna's starry-blossomed ways 
Bearing M'ith her the summer's self and all 

The flowery wealth of Greece. 
Thou smilest still, — and thy calm restfulness, 
O Spirit of FiUchantment, comes to bless 

Our fevered hearts Avith its unvexed and golden peace! 


f SAT by a western window 

Reading from old Montaigne, 
AVhile the yellow leaves were sifting down 
In the wash of the autumn rain. 

When sudden a far piano 

Sent forth a Beethoven strain, — 

Sonorous and resonant and sweet, — 
O'er the grieving autmnn rain. 

And the spell of that splendid music 
And the wisdom of old INIontaigne 

Seemed blent in a happy harmony 
As T watched the autumn rain. 

Ah, little guessed the player. 

Pouring that wild refrain. 
How the yearning melody reached one heart 

Through the sob of the autumn rain. 


Farewell to October- 

O thanks to the unknown player, 
And thanks to old Montaigne, 

For the memory they made for me 
Of that day of autumn rain. 

"/ love Old October so, 
I can't bear to see her go!" 
^O wrote Riley in his rime 

In a golden Autumn-time 
Long ago; and still they tell 
(Those old verses) of the spell 
Of October's waning mood 
As she fadeth down the wood 
Where beside the glassy meres 
Weeping willows drop their tears. 
While the rainy twilight grieves 
'Mid the soft and sodden leaves. 

Or upon a misty morn 
When the crows across the corn 
Call and call through sleepy hours, 
There among the gipsy flowers 
Old October wanders lonely 
By a plaintive brook whose only 
Song is of the Summer fled. 
While the golden, brown and red 
Leaves along the roads are strewn 
By the winds whose wailing rune 
Is an elegy that sighs 
Under sad and sombre skies. 

Dawns of rose and amethyst. 
Eves suff'used with golden mist. 
Forest pathwa3's paved with gold. 
Drifted down from branches old; 
Tangled wealth of weed and vine. 
Berries stained with woodland wine; 


Christmas Eve 

Pensive walks by drowsy streams, 
Haunt of reveries and dreams ; 

All must vanish with the spell 

Of the Month we love so well. 

"/ love Old October so, 
I can't bear to see her go!" 


T^EAR hearts, why should we fill the soul with sorrows, 

When song and dream and music all are ours? 
Why darken life's sweet days and glad to-morrows, 
When Poetry can cheer like summer flowers? 

When song and wistful dream and music golden 
May wrap us round like tides of summer flowers. 

Shall we not sit and muse on ballads olden. 
And drink the honeyed heart of wintry hours ? 

In days to come, dear hearts, we shall remember 
How song and dream and music all were ours. 

When, deep in drowsy nights of old December, 
The Poets charmed us as with summer flowers. 

The snow, the moonlight, Winter's every glory 
Will fade at last with time's remorseless hours ; 

Oh, let us lull the dying year with story 

And song and music sweet as golden flowers ! 


ATLT'HILE day is fading down the sky 

And softly falls the snow, 
We'll sit within the ingle's light 
And muse upon that wondrous night 
Long centuries ago. 


Christmas Eve 

For on that peaceful eve was born 

A little holy Stranger. 
Upon no silken bed he lay ; 
His pillow was a wisp of hay, 

His cradle was a manger. 

No inn of all wide Bethlehem 

Would shield the tender Child; 
So forced was he to lay his head 
Where oxen lowed and horses fed, 
Beside his mother mild. 

Not wrapt in naperics of price 
Nor princely vestments he; 

But swaddled was the Prince of Light 

In linens all of fairest white, 
In pure simplicity. 

The night was dark, ah, chill and dark ! 

A deep calm held the earth; 
Yet all transfigured was the place, 
Lit with the glory of his face, — 

That Babe of heavenly birth ! 

The shepherds saw his star on high, 

And rising up straightway. 
They left their little lambs in fold, 
And faring far o'er hill and wold 
They came to where he lay. 

Rich offerings with them they bare 
Whose wealth may not be told, — 

The orient pearl and balmy myrrh 

In silver ark and canister, 
And frankincense and gold. 


The Salvation Army 

And bending low these gifts they laid 
At their meek Saviour's feet. 

precious gifts, O blissful sign ! 

For cold is every pagan shrine ; 
Now rules this Infant sweet ! 

He rules, and Fear and Dread no more 

Shall hold their hated sway : 
Bright as the silver-beaming star 
That lit the shepherds from afar. 
He brings the better daj^ ! 

And hark, along the wintry sky 

Ring carols sweet and wild, — 
Resounding o'er the happy earth 
The glorious tidings of the birth 
Of this celestial Child ! 

That angel choir their anthems chant 

Through lands remote and wide, 
Proclaiming to the sons of man 
How Peace and Love their reign began 
Upon that holy tide. 

So while to-night the holly bough 

And mistletoe we weave. 
We'll think upon that wondrous Bo}^ 
And all he brought to earth of joy 

On that first Christmas Eve. 


1-1 ERE in the street they call on humble men 

To follow One who loved the lowly more 
Than folk of pomp and power ; — across the way 
A church stands empty with a fast-shut door. 




^ ND only Love keep in your hearts a place — 

At this most holy season of the year 
Doth it not come with consecrating grace, 

This prayer of Wordsworth our high Poet-Seer ! 
Love that makes brothers of all men of earth, 

The child-sweet Love that lives and cannot fail, 
Warm as the fire that cheers the dear home-hearth, 

Pure as the snow that whitens hill and vale. 
Deep in the treasury of the tranquil mind, 

O friends, — ye of sweet faith and hope elate, — 
Let Love this gracious day be firm enshrined 

And Envy barred forever from the gate. 
So shall ye build the temple that endures. 
And Yule-Tide's happy peace be richly yours. 


TTHE ruddy hearth-fires gleam and glow 

Across the weird December snow; 
The rabbits race beneath the moon; 
The frozen beggar asks a boon 
At doors that never turn awa^^ 
A helpless waif near Christmas Day. 
The happy children free from school 
Enjoy each hour of happy Yule 
With merry, merry, harmless noise, — 
Dear rosy girls and ruddy boys ! 

From wide old kitchens comes the sound 
Of doughnuts rolled and spices ground; 
The pantry shelves are heaping high 
With apple tart and pumpkin pie. 
So comes the Christmas Day and goes, 
'Mid frosty dawns and sparkling snows. 
Then, as the closing of the year 
With solemn portent draweth near, 


To y. R. s. 

The family by the evening fire, 
Crowned with content and heart's desire, 
Thank God for all the blessings given 
That make this earth a door to Heaven. 


(A memorial tablet in old Bruton Church, Virginia) 

^^ p)OET, Philosopher, Statesman, Gentleman,'" — 

That noble record Time can not efface 
While loyal love keeps green in memory 
His old-time Southern courtesy and grace. 


CO might some Southern lass of long ago 

Have looked when gathering roses in the dawn 
Beside some stately Old Virginia home 
Fronting upon a dreamy length of lawn. 


TTHE winds of your fair "almost-island" home 
Sing all the old immortal songs for you; 
There, magical the music of the foam, 
And every old thalassian fable true ! 


A^YNKYN de Worde was old Caxton's heir, 

And Johann Byddell next to Wynkyn came; 
Hence thou, who lovest well their ancient craft. 
Right fittingly dost wear an honored name. 

TO J. R. S. 

CTURDY Virginian, dear to thee the charm 

And majesty of every noble tree; 
How man}' an orchard, grove and ancient farm 

Have taken on new life, new strength, through thee! 


A Hl 



I— low good it seems, this wild and stormy day, 
Beside the fire to dream the hours away; 
Or, turning Shelley's well-loved leaves again, 
Hear his high music throbbing through the rain! 

TO J. M. 

t^OUR themes, old friend, delight thy kindly heart 

And fill th}' fancies with unfailing cheer, — 
Thy Country's annals. Nature's beauteous face, 
Great-hearted Books, and Children fair and dear. 

TO A. J. M. 


N all thy family's happy work and play 
Thine is no minor or uncertain part, — 
Kindly inspirer of their noblest dreams. 

Of all their deeds the center and the heart. 


f LOVE to look upon that dear child's face; — 

What winsome kindness and contentment there, 
What innocent wonder in her dreamy eyes 

Beneath her clear brow and her soft brown hair ! 


f KNOW a home beneath a noble oak, 

A happy home, made beautiful with books 
And all fair things, — whose smiling windows gleam 
With gold and crimson as tlie setting sun 
Goes down the dreamy valley. 

Joy and peace 
Abide within that home ; and, best of all, 
A child, a winsome child, transfigureth 
The house's cheer and charm with holy power 
Of innocent and wondrous babyhood. 


child' s Slumber Song 


CO quaint, and so sweet, little Leon, thou art, 

Child with the hair of gold, — 
Who that knows thee but gives his heart 
To Leon, five years old ! 

Thy father's mirth and thy mother's grace 

In thy winsome glances shine: 
Scarce have I seen a sunnier face. 

Little Leon, than thine. 

Dreamy-sweet be thy golden years. 

Child with thy soul of joy. 
Soft, O soft, be the wistful tears 

That touch this bonny boy ! 


CTILL is every birdie wee 

And the stars are gleaming ; 
Sweetest visions wait on thee, 
Darling, in thy dreaming! 

Elfin bowers dost thou see 

And the fairies dancing? 
Happy will my Dearest be 

At the sight entrancing! 
Mother by thy little cot 

Sees thee softly smiling. 
Dreams whereof she knoweth not 

Thy sweet sleep beguiling. 

On the morrow morn the sun 

At thy window peeping 
Will awake our little one 

As she lies a-sleeping. 
Now the heavens starry bright 

Keep their watch above thee ; 


Child of Melody and Light 

Slumber softly through the night, 
Knowing how we love thee. 

Come, to Dreamland let us start ; 

Mother's love enfolds thee. 
Safe within her happy heart 

She forever holds thee. 
Father with his sheltering arm 

From mischance will hide thee ; 
Little Darling, fear no harm 

While we are beside thee. 

Still is every birdie wee 

And the stars are gleaming ; 

Sweetest visions wait on thee. 
Darling, in thy dreaming! 


r^ HILD of melody and light. 

Be thy years serene and bright, 

Beautiful as sunny May 
Till thy life's autumnal day. 

Face the future high of heart; 
Cheerful, loving, act thy part. 

Cloud and storm must come to all. 
Soon or late some shadow fall. 

Let thy soul be fortified 
For what sorrow may betide. 

With thy heart in Heaven's care. 

Keep thy glad and joyous air. 

— 'Tis for thee my warmest prayer. 




\/irHAT beautiful dreams, what dreams of joj, 

Have come, my bonnie, to thee? 
Art thou drifting drowsily, drifting now 

In a ship on a faery sea, — 
On a faery sea whose froth and foam 
Bear thee far from the fields of home. 

Far on the sapphire sea? 

What wondrous islands wait thee there 

Afar on the sapphire sea, 
With magic woods of purple gloom 

And flowers on a grassy lea, — 
On a grassy lea where birds fly over 
Daffodils, daisies and honeyed clover 

Abloom on the windy lea? 

I see thee smile in thy dreams, my dear, 

And I know that the faery foam 
Which floated thee far on the phantom sea 

Is bearing thee back to home, — 
Back to home and the little nest 
Where throb the hearts that love thee best. 

Here in thy own dear home. 


T ITTLE darling, full of mischief, 
Full of sunshine and rejoicing. 
Droll delight and merry humor, — 
Peacherino ! 

Like a humming-bird in summer 
Flying, flitting round the roses 
With a golden shine and shimmer, — 
Such thy faery charm and brightness, 


^^The Age of Innocence' 

In the years that lie before thee 
Keep thy merriment and sunshine, 
Keep thy cheery charm and brightness, 
Spreading happiness around thee, 
Little dai'ling, — Peacherino ! 


I OVELY and lovable child, 
Delicate-fair as a flower 
And dear for thy maidenly charm, — 
I could pray that no happier fate 
Befall thee than, careless of gold. 
Of fashion and fame and "success," 
To live as the spirit appoints. 
Growing in sympathy, faith, 
In ardor and joy of the soul, 
And crowned by the consummate gift, 
hove, that can look with disdain 
On perishing things of the hour, 
hove that can lift and console 
And yield thee contentment of heart, 
Peace and ineffable joy. 
And lead thee in heavenly paths. 
Victorious, glad and serene. 

This would I pray be thy fate. 
Lovely and lovable child, 
Delicate-fair as a flower. 
And dear for thy maidenly charm. 


{A Painting by Reynolds) 

T> ETTER than all his dames of high degree 
This sweet and simple maiden seems to me. 
Compact of charm and sunlight, joy and tears,- 
Eternal typo of childhood through the years. 




T^HE singing dawns of April, 
The rosy breath of June, 
And Autumn's gentle wistfulness, 
Are all with thee in tune. 

The silver of the starlight 
The white foam of the sea, 

The sunny river's radiance, 
Are sisters all of thee. 

For thou art made of music, 
A spirit blithe and bright ; — 

God keep thee so forevermore, 
O heart of joy and light ! 


A S to a wanderer on some far sea 

Come happy visions of his native shore, 
So doth thy gentle fragrance bring to me 

Sweet memories of the days that are no more: 

Of far-off days when in my childish jo}^ 
I sauntered in the garden paths with her 

Whose grey and tender wisdom taught the boy 
To love the fragrance of the lavendar ; 

Of later days when 'neath the attic roof, 

Among old chests, while sadly fell the rain, 

I gazed with misty eyes upon the w oof 

Of fragrant silks she ne'er would wear again. 

O like the lavendar's faint breath to me 

The visions of the dear, remembered years. 

When that one calm and gracious face I see 
Arising through the halo of my tears ! 


At Brandy wine Manor Church 


TTHE sorrowful soft organ blows 

Across the golden air 
And fills with solemn harmonies 
This home of holy prayer. 

A maiden bends her graceful head 

Across the yellowed wood ; — 
Among those kneeling worshipers 

None seems more pure and good. 

She hears the yearning organ thrill 

With melodies divine 
Below the triple windows high 

That softly gleam and shine. 

She sees the white-stoled singers pass 

Below the lofty screen, 
Like phantom forms beneath the trees 

In woodland twilights green. 

My heart was fed on other faiths, 

A simpler creed is mine ; 
But yet for me the English Church 

Is filled with grace divine. 

So stately and so beautiful, — 

Grey English Church serene, 
Keep safely through all years to be 

The gentle-souled Kathleen. 


r^ AZING from this high stately house of prayer 

O'er league on league of wood and peaceful farm, 
I seem to breathe a sweet and wondrous air 

And feel an old-time faith's most solemn charm. 



C\ Wl'iARY women, with f<>\v Iiours of case, 

Whoso tinio is takon up Avit.h {>hil)s and teas — 
Waste not iioiir hour! Lcarii wis(h)in in the fields 
From birds and roses and the nuirmiirin^ trees. 

O, weary men, whose business lets you find 
Small leisure for the masters of the mind — - 

Waste not your hour! Pause now and then to dream 
liot up a little on 3'our steady grind. 

Go back, my friends, to your forefathers' chiys; 
Revive their calm, serene, untroubled ways. 

Waste not your hour! 'V\\v ^ods look |)ityin<]j down 
While human hearts grow ooM and faith decays. 

Waste not your hour! Turn from the noisy street, 
And hand in hand with little children sweet. 
Find (Jod again among the forest shades. 
By river shores and fields of waving wheat. 

The follies of the time the soid devour; 
(iod calls to you in every lovely (lower; 

(), heed His voice ere yet, it be too late — 
Drink deep at Nature's fount; Waste not your hour! 


{"Life is better than efficiency " — Sir George Grove) 

I TOW godless the "edlciency" that makes 

Men selfish seekers for an earthly goal, — 
Ruthless, victorious, trampling others down, 
Tiarge in "success" and ]>iteous small in soul ! 


A World of Silver 


{A Youthful Portrait) 

A S in a bud lies hid the perfect rose. 

So here high consecration, saintly grace, 
Unending love and all-victorious hope 

Lie soft foreshadowed in this clear sweet face. 


/^NCE more the green and golden days come back, 

With song of birds, and buds and swelling shoots; 
And far across the hills of dream I hear 
The mellow music of the shepherd flutes. 


'T'HE yellow moon is swimming o'er the sky 

Like some vast galleon floating high and far, 
A derelict adrift on heavenly seas 

And wandering on from star to lonely star. 


CLOW feed the cattle in the drowsy meads. 

Slow fall the leaves upon the lazy stream 
That loiters 'mid the flowers and golden weeds. 
And the calm days glide by like some rich dream. 


IV/f YSTERIES of rose and silver when the sun was 

dropping low, 
Then the twilight's faery shadows pencilled on the silvery 

And at last the moon, a silver galleon ponderous and 

Swimming o'er the silver silence of the dreaming world 



Old Irish Son^s 


T ONG strolls beside slow-winding Indian streams, 
Rich talk in rosy meadows by the sea, 
Slow lingering sunsets on the windy lea, 

Music and moonlight beautiful as dreams. 


IN queenly grace above the ocean strand 

It lifts its splendid beauty far and high, 
And fair as in some Venice of our dreams 

Rise towers and domes against the deep blue sky. 


"PRINGLE and Pretty," "Hoover," "Culver," "Gulp," 
^ "Crocker and Pozzett," "Kasser," "Zindel," 
How might some Dickens, gleaning names like these. 
Make them immortal in a merry book! 


T IKE odors faint from out an old rose-jar, 

Or forms that o'er an ancient arras pace, 
There passed before us for an hour a far 

And faded world of antique charm and grace. 


VVTHEN spirit-voices call her from all care 
To pass unto a lovelier land than this, 
O blame her not, that dreamy girl and fair. 
Whose heart so yearneth for the Land of Bliss ! 


l^^L/^HAT love, Avhat yearning went to make their charm, 

Their wistful tenderness and wild despair, 
Voicing a thousand years of Ireland's grief 
From Donegal's grey cliffs to lone Kildare! 


To My Books 


'T'HE busy present seemed to melt and fade, 

And back to blithe old English country ways 
She carried us in dreams that golden hour 

With madrigals and glees and shepherd lays. 


V^7HAT dreams and j^earning reveries awoke, 

What loved melodious memories untold, 
While through the wintrj'^ sunset into dusk 

The golden music murmured, surged and rolled! 


'T'HE cold blue moon hung low among the trees; 

Deep in the frozen woods the winds made moan; 
And through it all I heard great harmonies. 

Yearnings and hopes and dreams of wondrous tone. 


T IKE country-songs some lovely girl might chant 

Across the harvest fields at close of day, 
So seem those strange, sweet old-world melodies 
That laugh and sob and softly die away. 


A STRANGE enchantment haunts the dear home hill. 

My heart it yearneth for the dear home stream. 
And odors from remembered roses fill 
The music and the magic of my dream. 



STREW soft roses sweet with early dawn 
Among your leaves because I love you so. 
O who will find these flowers when I am gone, 
And learn how well I loved you long ago.'' 





T WANDERED wide in Beauty's quest,- 

To see her face I followed far, 
I could not pause for ease or rest 

But still must chase my fleeting star. 

With eager feet at morn and night 
I searched for her by hill and stream, 

But never to my yearning sight 

Appeared the darling of my dream. 

Heart-sick I vowed I would forego 
My gipsy quest for evermore, 

And turned me home at last, — when, lo. 
The lost Sweet-heart beside my door ! 


t^AR did he fare upon the wine-dark sea. 
Divine Odysseus, weaver of all wiles ! 
For many moons he lingered in the isles 
Of fair enchantresses, though fain to flee, 
And ever longed his own dear land to see. 
Yet was he doomed to visit Hell's dark aisles 
And wander sore-distraught for weary miles. 
Ere he might greet again Penelope. 

O wondrous Wanderer ! what voyage can measure. 

In legend or in history, with thine .f* 
Not fabled Argo's with its golden treasure ; 

Nor his who sought to found the Latian line ; 
Nor his of Genoa, in western seas 
Touching on isles rich as Hesperides ! 


Old Romance 


r\ SAPPHO, last and loveliest Muse, 

Thou Flower of starry Song, 
HoAv have thy golden fragments lived 

Throughout the ages long! 
The red, red apple hanging 

High on the topmost bough, — 
Ah, wistfully as in thy day 

We watch that apple now. 
Sweet childhood still enchants us 

As in that old-world hour 
When thou didst cherish one sweet child 

Fair as some golden flower. 

The roses, — dear, undying, 

By faery shores that blow, 
Whose bloom and fragrance touch us yet 

From out of Long Ago, 
The violet light of sunset 

Across the violet sea. 
The crocuses and daffodils 

That star the emerald lea — 
All these are thine unfading 

Throughout the ages long, 
O, Sappho, last and loveliest Muse, 

Thou Flower of starry Song! 


{On Reading the Celtic Poems of Lionel Johnson) 

r^ REY Merlin in Broceliande, 

They say, is sleeping still; 
His wizard spirit haunteth yet 

Broceliande's dim hill. 
The mystery of Old Romance 

Dies not, nor ever will! 



The worldly strive thro' weary days 

Their coffers deep to fill ; 
Romance, they hold, long since is dead, 

Forgotten Merlin's hill. 

Nay, Uther's son in Avalon 
Roams yet by mead and rill ; 

The ancient glamor of his name 
Haunts Usk and Severn still. 

If custom's thralls with gleaming gold 
May furnish chest and till, — 

That Arthur roams in Avalon 
To them doth nothing skill. 

Ah yet, tho' we may proudly prate 

Our news of mart and mill. 
Grey MerHn's spirit haunteth yet 

Broceliande's dim hiU. 
The mystery of Old Romance 

Dies not, nor ever will! 


A BOVE the dreaming thunders of Beethoven, 
Above the Minnesingers' joj'ous throng, 
One poet chants for me his golden numbers — 
Schiller, the tenderest heart of German song. 

Not Heine's wistful charm and lyric feeling. 

Not Goethe's mighty nmse serene and strong. 
Can e'er surpass my memoried affection 
For Schiller, tenderest heart of German song. 

O student days of mine, long lost forever. 
Let me not do your memory the wrong 

Now to forget that kindly friend you gave me — 
Schiller, the tenderest heart of German song ! 


At Concord 


PRESIDE the dreamy river 

I meditate and dream 
And wonder if forever 
The phantoms of my dream 
Will sail the dreamy river — 

For silent and forever 
In soft delicious stream 
Adown the dreamy river 
Soft pageantries do stream 
Enthralling me forever — 

Far flows the dreamy river, 
From underworlds of dream 
And drowsy ghosts forever 
From poppied fields of dream 
Pass down the dreamy river — 

And drowsily forever 
They beckon from the stream 
As down the dreamy river 
They pass in sleepy stream 
And leave me lost forever — 

Lost by the dreamy river 
In poppied dream on dream 
And wondering if forever 
The phantoms of my dream 
Will sail the dreamy river. 


L^ROM Harvard's halls how well I loved to roam 

By Concord's hills and woods and winding streams, 
And muse by Hawthorne's home or 'neath the trees 
Where Emerson was wont to weave his dreams ! 


At the Bwial of Lord Tennyson 


A S I roamed in Oxford's ancient meadows, by her classic 

Came the word that England's Laureate now was passed 

beyond life's dream. 

Sleeping in October's moonlight, Shakespeare's volume by 

his side. 
He had crossed the bar, and drifted now on heaven's 

eternal tide. 

Leaving then those dreamy meadows, far I fared and 

mused awhile 
Where the Poet's long-loved landscape reaches mile on 

verdant mile 
To the shore where ancient ocean laves that green and 

ancient Isle. 

Then in London's mighty Minster I beheld the noble state 
Of the solemn service, 'mid the sleeping dust of England's 

great, — 
Kings and statesmen, saints and poets, levelled by one 

common fate. 

Up the solemn aisle they bore him, solemnly with honors 

And I watched them as they laid him reverently at 

Chaucer's feet. 
While the ancient Abbey echoed with great music heavenly 


October, 1892 


IVoodberry' s ''-Wild Eden' 


OuB Shakespearean 

TTHREE centuries did Master Shakespeare wait 

For an interpreter whose gift should be 
Upon his mighty verse to meditate 

With wit and sense and sweet humanity ; 

Pursuing merrily through every Play 
With genial satire and with kindly jest 

Those grave Malvolios of an elder day, 

Johnson, Malone, and Capell, and the rest ; 

A sage whose library, like Prospero's, 

Was dukedom large enough, where year by year, — 
'Mid stout old tomes and lordly folios 

Shut up in measureless content, — with clear. 
Fine touch he did illume the Master's page 
With light that shall renown our prosy age. 


LJE kept his youthful soul unto the end, 

What though the well-loved face grew worn and 
thin, — 
For youth and life and love were doubly dear 

To his warm heart that breathed them through "Hugh 


f^ OLUMBIA, — thy like I have not seen 

Since old-world Oxford charmed my happy eyes, 
Grey old-world Oxford tranquilly that lies 
Dreaming amid her river-meadows green. 
August! y seated like a statel}^ queen 
On thine acropolis, thy beauty vies 
With all thy sisters' charms ; yea, strange new ties 
Enthrall me as I watch this noble scene. 


The Sky -Lark of the Poets 

Yet one rich voice I miss ; I come too late 
To hear his golden lore, his Attic dream : — 
Yet while his lyric page I meditate 
This summer eve by Hudson's lordly stream, 
I still may hear — most gracious and elate — 
The Plato of this little Academe. 

'T'HROUGH English verse rings forth the sky-lark's 

And I have loved it long, — 

In Shakespeare's page, and Shelley's, and in one 
By Frederick Tennyson 
Less known but not less lovable. They each 
Report his heavenly speech; — 
In radiant music beautiful and bright 
They sing his starry flight. 

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings! 

* * -* 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awaken'd flowers. 

All that ever was 

Joyous and clear and fresh, — thy music doth surpass. 

* * * 

How the blithe lark runs up the golden stair 

That leans through cloudy gates from Heaven to Earth, 
And all alone in the empyreal air 

Fills it with jubilant sweet songs of mirth! 

Of all the poets' songs none do I hear 
With more delighted ear 
Than hail the lark, "blithe spirit" of the air, 
With raptures of despair. 

Wordsworth's grave eloquence has won my heart; 
And Watson's later art ; 

And Mackay's lilting song; — each poet stirred 
By that small wondrous bird ! 


The Sky -Lark of the Poets 

Leave to the nightingale her sluidy wood; 

A privacy of glorious light is thine. 
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 

Of harmony, with instinct more divine; 
Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam — 
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home. 

Two 7vorlds hast thou to dwell in. Sweet, — 

The virginal, untroubled sky. 

And this vexed region at my feet, — 

Alas, but one have I! 

* * * 

bonnie bird, that in the brake, exultant, dost prepare 

thee — 
As poets do xvhose hearts are true, for wings that will 
upbear thee — 
O! tell vie, tell me, bonnie bird. 
Canst thou not pipe of hope deferred? 
Or canst thou sing of nought but spring among the golden 

Now, as I close my book, and by the fire 

Dream to my heart's desire 

Of larks that lilt across the poets' page 

Untouched by grief or age, — 

The Ettrick Shepherd's artless verses stream 

Across my musing dream, 

And wake once more the old unclouded joy 

1 felt when but a bo}' 

Chanting them idly in the glad sunshine 
Beside the Brandywine: — 

Bird of the wilderness. 

Blithesome and cumberless. 
Sweet be thy jnatin o'er moorland and lea! 

Eviblem of happiness. 

Blest is thy dwelling-place. — 
O to abide in the desert zvith thee! 


To He?'bert Bates 


{On his "Songs of Exile") 
T^RUE Ocean-lover tliou, who far from home, 

From old sea-fronting cliff and streaming beach, 
With Poet's vision yet dost reach 
Across the wide still plains to where the foam 
Surges and seethes all day, 
Flinging its flaky spray 
O'er many a league of dripping oozy rock 
Whose sides are seamed and tortured with the shock 
And thunder of a thousand stormy years. 
The viking's blood along thine every vein 
Doth live again ! 

The ancient sea is sounding in thine ears ; 
And joy unto thy heart 'twould be, • 

Where hovering gulls are flying 
Beyond the curlew's crying. 
To climb the tossing ridges of the wild white northern sea ! 

Keen mariner, who dost rehearse 
Thine ocean-love in passioned verse 
Ebbing and flowing in recurrent tides, — 
About thy book abides 

The sweet fresh touch and tang of salty waves ; 
And glowing o'er thy gladsome staves. 
Still for the hundredth time there comes to me 
The charm and mystery. 
The strange weird wonder and delight. 
The sleeping indolence or whelming might, 
Which men have celebrated in the sea 
Since he of Chios hymned his Odyssey. 

Poet of Ocean, chanting foam-born strains 
'Mid vast drear western plains, 
Not wholly do the prairies lack thy praise — 
Dead ocean-floors of old primeval days — 
And thy poetic thinking. 
Far-sundered ages linking, 


To a Friend 

Is like the lonely fir-tree sung by thee, 

Which dreaming of its hilly home 

Above the flashing foam 

Where the rough world-edge meets the sea, — 

Though barred from dear-loved strand and sound of 

plunging wave, 
Still murmurs to the prairie Songs of Exile sweet and 

brave ! 


* *(^F the lost Paradise much hast thou told; — 
^^^ Of Paradise found what hast thou to say?" 
So spake young Ellwood, sitting at the feet 
Of him who sang in stately harmonies 
Man's first transgression and unhappy fall. 
"Of Paradise found, what hast thou to say?" 
Grave Milton answered not the Quaker youth, 
But sate in pensive muse, his mighty soul 
Stirred by new visions ; and in later days 
The second epic greeted Ellwood's eyes. 

High is the poet's joy : 'tis his to muse 

On truth and all fair things, and to enshrine 

In silver words the image of his dreams. 

But what of those whose friendly wisdom oft 

Doth shape his visions, — silent poets they, 

Who cherish in their hearts unwritten songs 

And hymns that gladden all the secret soul ! 



A MONG thy garden's golden flowers 
We stood at sunset, thou and I, 
And watched the crimson clouds and gold 

Make glorious the western sky. 
A splendor filled that western sky 
And held us with its spell divine; 


To a Friend 

We felt akin to men of old 

Who worshipped at some antique shrine. 
But never from an antique shrine 

Died out the splendor and the light 
More swift and sorrowfully dim 

Than paled that tract of heaven bright. 
What though it paled, that heaven bright, 

Like sails on visionarj' seas, — 
We know that Beauty still survives 

For us who are her devotees ! 


Far down across the summer woods 

We heard the summer thunders roll. 
While in the deepening twilight hour 

I heard the story of thy soul. 
The moving story of thy soul, — 

Ah, how it woke my wistful dream 
And brought from half-forgotten years 

Grey memories in ghostly stream ! 
I saw them pass, a ghostly stream 

Of well-loved hopes, ah, lost for long! — 
Dear hopes that haunt my -vasion now 

Like echoes of a vanished song. 
Yet who would wake the vanished song 

Or live again old years of dream. 
When Faith and Beauty beckon on 

And fill each morn with golden gleam.'' 


How Milton's music filled th}'^ heart 

In thy rich 3'outh, thou oft hast told; 
Wliile still I held that Shelley's page 

Had filled my dreams with songs of gold. 
With heavenly airs and songs of gold 

Did Shelley haunt my happy youth. 
And yet like thee I oft must turn 

To Wordsworth for sage words of truth. 


To a Friend 

He spoke to thee sage words of truth, 

He lield me captive hour on hour, 
Whose simple love embraced alike 

The lofty peak, the lowly flower. 
Yea, he who loved the lowly flower 

I know is on our hearts enrolled 
With Milton and his music high. 

With Shelley and his songs of gold. 


Beethoven's symphonies august 

I heard thee play; and from that eve 
In many an hour of reverie 

His mighty song doth sob and grieve. 
Adagios that sob and grieve 

Have held me ever with their spell. 
Enchanting is their pensive charm, 

Their mj'stic power I may not tell. 
I may not fathom, may not tell 

The reveries that flood the soul 
While stately harmonies august 

Thou pourest from Beethoven's scroll. 
Twice blest, who from Beethoven's scroll 

"Ineffable art born along," 
And dost with sympathetic pen 

Portray his "deep harmonious song" ! 


A boyhood vision came to thee, — 

Long years ago it seems, how long! — 
In music strange a voice was heard 

That bade thee give thy soul to Song. 
And thou hast given thy soul to Song 

And followed still her starry gleam, 
And she has yielded many a flower 

And sent thee many a golden dream. 
From flower and star and golden dream 

Thou wovest still a fabric fair, 


Her Memory 

And ever through the silken woof 

Has run a thread of music rare. 
O visionary music rare 

That woke thy wonder as a boy, — 
Still may it bless with fadeless flowers 

0/ innocence and peace and joy! 


/^ OD'S free air blows about these mountain crests 

Sweet with the breath of oak and pine and beech, 
And ever sounds in accents soft and low 

The forest's mystic speech. 
Among these highland haunts of bird and flower 

Primeval peacefulness and beauty brood; 
No echo of the restless world may rise 

To this green solitude. 
Nature's unceasing music here is heard 

In tumbling cataract and foaming stream ; 
And far above the white clouds poise and drift 

Calm as a summer dream. 

Ah, sweet it is to banish for a space 

The weariness and tumult of the street, 
To thread wild upland paths and ferny glades 

In this remote retreat; 
To contemplate these mighty slopes serene 

Where league on league the shadowy woodlands roll, 
And find in murmurous leaf and sunset cloud 

Renewal of the soul! 


{To D. H. W.) 

QHE seems to linger still as in a dream 

In this old home beside the silver stream, — 
A sweet and gracious memory, making bright 
The lonely house as with a spirit-light. 


Saint Patrick 


{St. Patrick's Day) 
KINDLY of heart are the children of Erin, 

'Tis they are the patriots loyal and true. 
Daughters and sons of the land of St. Patrick, — 
O but the heart of mc's longing for you ! 

It's down in the west by the fairy Killarney, 
It's far in the north by the Donegal shore. 

You'll find hospitality there by the plenty, — 
How my heart longs for you, Erin asthore ! 

Where are the names that have more of the love in them, 
Cork and Kinvarra, Dungarvon and Clare, — 

Dear old home-places beloved all the world around; 
O but the heart of me longs to be there ! 

Kinsfolk of mine in the green County Armagh, 
Sure, Ireland knows you for kindly and true: 

Here at the feast of the holy Saint Patrick 
O but the heart of me's longing for you! 


/^ REEN Ireland, circled round by the ocean green, 

Home of a kindly race, of a kindly faith. 
Of folk who from ancient years have loved thee well 
And have mingled their ancient faith with their love for 

thee, — 
Of old did Patrick, the holy, walk thy fields. 
Pastured the sheep and prayed in the lonely hours. 
Prayed in the forests and far on the mountains and moors. 
And ever dreamed of heaven and home as he prayed. 

In Ulster he wrought, and in Leinster, many a year, — 
In "the Gospel's net" bringing men to the harbor of life. 


Saint Patrick 

By shores of rivers turbid and deep and swift, 

By waters of Boyne and mighty Shannon he passed; 

Through valleys sweet with the lowing of peaceful herds, 

Sweet with the tinkling bells of sheep that roamed 

Amid the shamrock and deep in the clover blooms, 

On hillsides yellow with gorse, on mountain heights, — 

Old Slievenaman where the purple heather blows, 

And the larks pour out to the sun their passionate joy, — 

O'er moorlands grey in the twilight's wizard gloom. 

He passed, — that noble Saint, — and won to his love 

The flower of Ireland's sons with his wondrous words. 

Warriors and lords and kings before him knelt; 

Lowly and simple men forsook old faiths, — 

Old druid rites revered by their earliest sires, — 

To follow Christ's Apostle forevermore 

In his new and holy gospel of heavenly love. 

To holy Patrick, valorous, meek and wise, 

With his mien majestic, his gracious and kindly ways. 

Men listened gladly, moved by his power divine. 

To a warlike people he preached the dawn of Peace; 

To chieftains and princes he preached humility; 

To the druids and bards, a faith more marvellous. 

More strangely sweet, than the faiths of elder time. 

And over the emerald fields and the heathery hills. 

Over the shamrock meadows and mighty streams. 

Rose hymns of praise for Christ who reigns from the 

Hymns for Christ who befriendeth the humble and poor. 
And little children, and men despised of men. 
In Armagh sleepeth Patrick? or far in Saul, 
In Glastonbury, or by Downpatrick's wave? — 
No man may tell, — But long as the ocean green 
Shall lave thy lonely cliffs and emerald fields, 
His holy name. Green Isle, shall reverenced be 
As Christ's Apostle who taught thy early folk 
The kindly faith that blends with their love for thee. 


Our Ancient Mother 


(Harvard College) 

l-JOME of the heart is she, of youth eternal, 

Of joy and dreams and fadeless April hours, 
A dedicated shrine of Truth supernal, 
A garden lovely with the Muses' flowers. 

By mystery and beauty is she haunted, 
By sorrow born of sweet and loyal tears ; 

Hers is the glamour of old days enchanted. 
And hers the pathos of the vanished years. 

"In our dear Attica" each antique portal. 

Each quaint colonial hall and elm-swept green, 

Is hallowed with remembrances immortal, — 
How magical their beauty and how keen! 

Yet sadness mingles with her golden graces. 
For those red walls dear recollection keep 

Of voices musical and memoried faces. 
Of comrades gone to their eternal sleep. 

How has she stirred the soul to finer vision. 
How has she waked the will to fuller might ! 

And how revealed in reveries elysian. 

The upward pathway beautiful and white! 

With tranquil tenderness and wistful pleading. 
She calls her sons to seek the noblest good; 

Not fretful nor insistent, nay, but leading 

Through silent power of her great motherhood. 

The blessings of that motherhood we cherish. 
High heritors of her majestic Past; 

Old Harvard's holy memories cannot perish; 
Grey tower and ivied wall they shall outlast. 


Beside the Sea 

Serene, august, magnificent and hoary, 

In splendor rich, and rich in great renown, — 

Her children's love is yet her chiefest glory, 
And ''Veritas'' her sweet, sufficient crown. 


I SOMETIMES wish that I might be 

Alone beside the lonely sea, 
With only wife and children there 
To make the golden hours more fair. 
And one low room whose walls are lined 
With long-loved books to cheer the mind. 

O how enchanting it would seem 
Through quiet hours to muse and dream, 
And there beside the drift-wood fire 
To talk and laugh to heart's desire. 
Or watch the bonnie children play 
And romp beside the ocean spray ! 

And often by the sea we'd read 
Old songs of love and knightly deed, 
Old ballads out of Ireland brought, 
Fair tales by William Morris wrought. 
And blithe romances many a one 
By well-loved Louis Stevenson. 

And every happy dawn of day 

We'd ramble by the tossing spray, 

And listen all the afternoon 

Unto the sea's romantic rune. 

— Would not such days delightful be 

Beside the wild and wondrous sea ! 


The Isle of Dreams 


I KNOW a sea-beach where the land comes down 

In wild green marshy meadows to the sea, 
And ends in flat grey rocks and tawny sand 
Whereon the tireless ocean-tide doth creep 
And crawl in languorous summer's sleepy days, 
Or moan and thunder through the dreadful nights 
Of deep midwinter, yet hath left unchanged 
That stretch of flat grey rocks and tawny sands. 

Here, many a dreamy August afternoon. 

Along the moist, hard sand-slopes have I paced 

And watched the whitening breakers roll and curve 

And plunge, sending a sheet of watery green, 

Flecked all with bubbles and with frothy foam, 

Far up across the grey sands to the base 

Of those grey rocks, then fleeting leave behind 

Myriads of little shells and weedy froth, 

While melancholy ocean sadly moaned 

And blent his murmurs with the cries of gulls 

That swept his tossing crests with tireless wing 

Along those marshy meadows by the sea. 


r\ SWEET are the verdant valleys, 
^^^ And fair are the silver streams 
That flow by the fragrant alleys 
Afar in the Isle of Dreams ! 

There from dawn to the gloaming 

Under the dreamy trees, 
Sweet to list to the foaming 

And murmur of fairy seas. 

And when the moon is waning 

All in the rosy morn, 
Sweet is the soft complaining 

Of fairy flute and horn. 

The Bodleian Library 

Lying among the roses 

There in the greenwood deep, 
The wanderer reposes 

Wrapt a magic sleep. 

Faint and far-heard singing 

Falls on his raptured ears, 
Elfin echoes ringing 

Out of the fadeless years. 

Filling his soul with sorrows, 

Melting his heart with ruth, 
Dreams of sad to-morrows. 

Visions of vanished youth. 

Full of a soft regretting 

He slumbers till dewy dawn. 
All the present forgetting 

Living in days long gone. 

O sweet are the sleep}^ shadows 
That haunt those sleepy streams. 

And sweet to lie in the meadows 
Afar in the Isle of Dreams ! 


{A Painting hy Henry 0. Walker) 

T O, here the Sovereign Muse inspires her son; 
He gathers power from her triumphant eyes. 
Through his bright song high victories shall be won 
And heroes fired to deeds of great emprise! 


nPHE world hath not another home like this 

Of antique quietude and cloistered dreams; 
The deep-browed student here is wrapt in bliss. 
And Oxford's ancient light around him streams. 


Princeton University Library 


A N endless summer-tide of lettered peace 

Here have I found through long, long winter hours, 
Wandering in academes of golden Greece 
And England's gardens of poetic flowers. 


{The Harris Alcove) 

A CROSS the dreamy college green it looks, 

Beneath old dreamy silence-haunted trees. 
Here would I anchor by this isle of books 
And gather apples of Hesperides ! 


/^N this acropolis the city's noise 

Seems nothing, and its tumult faint and far; 
A sanctuary this of noble J03's 

Wliose portals ope to heaven and every star. 


IT seems the heart of that green college town, 

'Mid those green hills and near the fair green river ; 
And in its quiet alcoves one might drown 
All memories of the noisy world forever. 


TN that calm house, from Virgil's folios 

To Princeton's own true poet* did I roam. 
So kind the welcome that its guardians gave, — 
Each peaceful alcove seemed to me like home. 

^Henry van Dyke 


The Childre7i s Readi?ior-Room 



Y^/^ISDOM and peace and bcauW have their home 
In this high liouse adorned with Gotliic grace; 
And happy tliey who read innnortal books 
In so serene and beautiful a pUice. 


T IMMURED among okl nioniory-haunted trees 

And wrapt around with quiet Quaker spell, 
How it hath ministered to chosen youth, 

How waked their hearts to wisdom — who may tell ! 


CERENITY and peace and sunny dream 

Have laid their blessing on these graceful towers. 
And airs august from Old AVorld Oxford seem 

To breathe amone; these courts and cloistered bowers. 


(Cohassct, Mass.) 

LJfERE twice a daj^ the tidal waters rise 

And flood the green salt meadows with soft foam. 
How fitting, that beside the eternal Sea 
Eternal Literature should have a home! 


{New York City Public Library) 

V\7HAT would we not have given in childhood's day 

For such a realm of dear delight as this — 
Where wrapt in sunshine, beaut^^ color, joy. 
The little readers spend long hours of bliss ! 


Across the U^orld 


A S one who watched old Norman builders raise 

Pillar and glorious arch against the skies 
In holy and devoutly patient wise, 
To stand at last through all enduring days 
A temple and a home for God's high praise, — 
So do I watch pillar and arch arise. 
And muse how o'er the city's grieving cries 
This solemn pile its consecration lays. 

Columbia's sons : the great goal is not near ; 
Adown the decades shines the starry lure 
And calls you on through year by patient year. 
From yon slow-rising Minster learn this truth — 
He buildeth Godward steadfastly and sure 
Who buildeth firmly in his splendid youth. 


{The Centennial Year of the American Bible Society) 

CLOVAK and Zulu, Muskokee and Kurd 
Alike may freely ponder on the Word; 
Latin and Lettish, Filipino, Greek 
In this old Volume may for solace seek, — 
So wide across the world, through joy, through tears. 
Has gone the Bible in these hundred years. 

It missioners have reached the friendly hand 

To men of every creed in every land ; 

Bearers of love to nations wide and far. 

For them all gates have gladly stood ajar; 

In paths of pleasantness they ever trod. 

Rejoicing thus to serve the living God; — 

So wide across the world, through joy, through tears, 

Has gone the Bible in these hundred years. 


Grandfather s Farm 

Yeomen of Iceland through their long, long night 

Have searched the Scriptures and have found the light; 

Fijians, Irish peasants, Persians, Poles 

From its loved leaves draw comfort for their souls. 

The Servian, the Seneca, the Swede, 

Each in his home-land tongue its page may read; — 

So wide across the world, through joy, through tears, 

Has gone the Bible in these hundred years. 

And when we think how on the Flemish plains, 
Amid high Alpine snows, and Russian rains. 
Soldiers of every warring nation lay 
Hatred aside and seek at close of day 
The peaceful page and yield them to its spell, — 
Our gratitude beyond all words to tell 
Goes out to God who gave his servants grace 
To bear the Word to every land and race. 


{In the County Armagh) 
LOVE thee, Lurgan, for the legends dim 

Inherited from thy ancestral earth, — 

The kindly parish, whence my kinsfolk drew 

Their share of Irish drollery and mirth. 


I MUSE to-night on recollections sweet with fadeless 

The far-off unforgotten days on dear Grandfather's Farm, 
Far in the southern region of that fertile county wide 
Where silver Susquehanna rolls its gleaming dreaming 


O memory, call back once more those dear old days, 

and bring 
To weary boys a cooling draught from that delicious 



Grandfather s Farm 

Bring back again the apples, big and rosy-red and 

bright, — 
I still can hear them thumping down in quiet of the 

night ! — 
And waft to me the musky scent of purple grapes once 

And pears whose yellow mellowness we loved so well of 

Bring back the luscious berries on the tangled brambles 

And the quaint old-fashioned melons with their flavor 

sweet and rare ! 

And let me hear again the birds we loved so long ago, 
The robins fluting 'mid the apple-blossoms' pearly snow, 
The meadow-larks that called across the valley wild and 

And black-birds and bobolinks that piped above the wheat. 

How beautiful in memory beside the quiet road 

The old brick house knee-deep amid the fragrant flowers 

that glowed 
In peaceful summer beauty ! There the bright corchorus 

Beside the trellised porch with honeysuckle all embowered, 
Where in the dreamy Sunday afternoons of long ago. 
Dressed in our best the little cousins sat, — a happy row. 
And listened to the stories which the older folks would tell 
About their childhood doings, — O I still recall the smell 
Of that sweet-breathed honeysuckle, and I still can hear 

the bees 
That mixed their droning murmurs with the drowsy sum- 
mer breeze ! 
I still can smell the warm sweet grass wherein we loved 

to lie 
And watch the great cloud-fleets that sailed across the 
silent sky; 


yohn N, Russell 

And far beyond, we seemed to see the heavens shining 

On us enchanted children from those skies of summer blue. 

Those days are gone, and those old folks now sleep 

in quiet rest ; 
But still the cloud-fleets fade afar down in the sleepy west. 
The flowers that bloomed by those old walls have faded 

many a year, 
And all those happy days live but in recollection dear ; 
And other children dream beside that porch 'mid other 

flowers. — 
O may their memories be half as beautiful as ours. 
Be half as rich in recollections of the wondrous charm 
Of far-off unf orgotten days at dear Grandfather's Farm ! 


T THINK of it with mingled joy and tears, 

The quaint old Farmstead where he used to dwell; 
For he is gone who loved it long and well. 

With her who walked beside him through the years. 

He long has gone, but Memory endears 

The well-loved place, and still a pensive spell 
Breathes from its silent loneliness to tell 

Its hallowed story to our yearning ears. 

He long has gone from us ; but there remain 

His sympathy and truth and kindliness 
And his high honor that knew not a stain. 

These cannot fail, but shall remain to bless, — 
New-consecrated by this centuricd day, — 
The children of his lineage for aye. 


A Portrait Painter 


SOMETIMES, in precious moments, I can hear 

Old memoried echoes beautiful and dear, — 
M}' mother's music, — while her sweet girl-face 
Yearns from across the years with tender grace. 


C\\SQ thoughts, old friends, old songs came back to-day, 

And buried recollections half-forgot, — 
When in a sunny garden bright with bloom 
I drank the fragrance of the bergamot. 


CTRAIGHT did we sail into the silver west 

Till at the rosy ending of the day 
Lo, where the tranquil city purple-robed 
Stood like a comely queen above the bay ! 

Here first one feels the glamour of the South, 
Its tenderness, its fine and wistful grace; 

The city's dreamy beauty stirs the heart 
Like some fair southern girl's patrician face. 

Wliat pathos haunts her hills and olden streets 
They who revere the muses sadly know, — 

Here walked with eyes a-dream Sidney Lanier, 
Here sleeps among the shadows Edgar Poe. 


Che is the friend who reverently sees 

God's beauty in the clouds and flowers and trees ; 
And, best of all, in faces loved and fair 
Can paint the heavenly spirit shining there. 


Aiken s Portrait 


"DEHOLD this portrait here, 

This likeness of a damsel dreamy-dear. 
Did she not draw her charm 
From life on some green-acred farm 
Whose fresh sweet air 
Makes maidens blithe and fair? 
Did she not draw her spirit's dainty fire 
From that brave Flemish sire 
Who made a score of rebels run 
When William fought with James at Boyne, — 
Her kindly cheer 
From that old Irish county dear 
Where all the day 
Folks talk in "shanacus" the hours away! 

With no pretence, — 

So modest she, — her's is the wit and sense 

Descended straight 

From ancestors of wisdom and of weight, 

Quakers of loving heart. 

Who in their neighborhood bore well their part : 

Dear mothers fair, 

Of character benignant, sweet and rare; 

And sires of old. 

Strong men and valiant, of heroic mould. 

— • All this I see in this bright portrait here 

Of this young Quaker damsel dreamy-dear. 


(A Painting bzj Helleu) 
HO knows her? W^ho knows 
This slip of a wild Irish rose? 
I have heard of her charm, 
Though her face I've not seen, — 
This beautiful young Irish queen, 
Aileen ! 



The Golden Wedding 

AVho may fathom her spirit, — how keen 

The joy at the heart of Aileen! 

Her pictured face here 

Shows her dreamy and dear, 

And her pensive s^lance muses and glows 

As she dreams of her "wild Irish rose." 

Dear daughter of dreams, may she be 
Through all time the bright soul that I see 
In her pictured face here, — 
The lovely and lovable child. 
With her wonderful wild 
Irish spirit romantic and keen, 
Aileen ! Aileen ! 


(7. n. C. and M. C. C.) 

'T'HE long half-hundred years have rolled 
To this the happy year of gold. 

The full rich fifty years that tell 
Of lives spent honorably and well. 

After the ocean's sun and storm, 
The haven's shelter safe and warm ; 

After the guiding pilot-star. 
The beacon on the harbor-bar. 

Your star, — God's love that cannot cease ; 
Your haven, — deep enduring peace. 

Now upon this golden shore 
Count your greatest blessings o'er: 

Children, and their children too. 
Loyal, loving, kindly, true; 

Hearts of gold that shall hand down 
Record of your fair renown, 



Echoing in form and face 
Heritage of strength and grace, 

Following still your simple creed, 
Honorable in word and deed, 

Handing on your kindly fame 
To the latest of your name. 

Worthy you and worthy they 
Of our solemn joy to-day, 

When the fifty years have rolled 
To this happy year of gold. 

And the genial clan we see 
Gathered 'neath the home roof-tree. 

Offering their reverence due, 
Loving you and honoring you. 

May God's love that cannot cease 
Give you deep enduring peace. 

And the memory of this day 
Hallow and hearten us for aye. 



T^HE daffodils shone round my wandering feet 

All dewy and golden and sweet, 
The little blue violets lay like soft stars in the grass. 
The meadow-lark carolled across the green acres of wheat. 
I watched the white cloud-islands pass 
And mingle and melt in the limitless heavenly sea, 
Mingle and melt and fade in the rose-tinted west. 
Till the lark went to rest 



And all through the gi*ass on green hillside and lea 
The bright starry flowers had fallen asleep 
In their night-slumber deep. 


A little child rambled and romped all the sunny long day 

In joyous and innocent play; 

How happy her song and how jocund her merry sweet 

I longed for the power of the painter, so might I portray 
The charm of that little one's joys, 

As warmed by the sun and caressed by the summer-soft air 
She seemed a true sister of birds and of flowers, — 
That girleen so bonnie and fair. 
Singing on through the sunny-bright hours. 


I saw by the ocean a sunset of purple and gold ; 

Far down in the south fled a thunder-cloud dim, 

And the thunder still muttered and rolled. 

Though faint and more faint till it failed on the rim 

Of the billowy, heaving, wild fields of the sea 

Late vanquished and vext by the turbulent storm. 

How delicious and warm 

The flaming soft cloud, all ablaze 

With the myriad hues of the rainbow that hung o'er the 

While the west seemed enwrapt in a luminous haze, — 
A light and a glory that live with me yet ; 
Its wonder how can I forget ! 


And now at some line or some musical magical word 
Of the well-beloved poet Lanier is my memory stirred. 
And I muse on the pathos that sings 
Through the sobbing of flutes and the yearning of eloquent 



The lordly and eloquent voices of violoncellos, 

The bass-viol's murmuring deep, 

And the horn's clear victorious clangor that mellows 

And dies into dream-music tranquil as sleep: — 

To these I could listen forever, 

Listen, and muse in a tremulous dream. 

While the harmony flows like a deep shining river, 

A golden and glorious stream. 


O, what do they say to our hearts, — the rich music, — the 

child, — • 
The flowers, — and the thunder-cloud wild, — 
So wonderful they. 

So wonderful, touching, harmonious, each in its way? 
That God's in his heaven, alVs right with the world, as he 

Our great-hearted Browning; — that the message which 

In the harping of David, — the wonder that rolls 
Through the harmony Shakespeare applauded in beautiful 

Will heal our heart-sickness, and bless, — 
'Mid our foolish and pitiful world-weariness, — 
With their peace and victorious calm. 
Will bless with their healing and heaven-sent balm. 


{Cambridge, Mass.) 

I UNE'S "perfect days" that Lowell loved so well 
Could find no home more beautiful than here, 
Where ancient elms and wildly flowering shrubs 
Caress the rambling house he held so dear. 


At a Performance of ^^Comus" 


T N Genoa's minster John the Baptist sleeps ; 

From here sailed Godfrey on the First Crusade ; 
Upon her roll of admirals she keeps 

Columbus, whose renown shall never fade. 

Her graves, her names, her palaces, all tell 

Of glory past, of splendor that hath been. 
One only relic with a living spell 

Still speaks to us to-day 
From out tlie far-away : — 
Great Paganini's wizard violin. 

O, its imagined and immortal tones 

With what compelling pathos spoke to me, 

Above all monuments, all martyrs' bones 
Cherished by this bright city of the sea ! 


"Y^JHEN Dorothy plays, it resembles a harp 

With its sobbing and sibilant strings. 
Now merry and mad. 
Now pensive and sad, — 

How lovely the lilt as her fancy takes wings ; 
And under her fingers how fondly it sings. 
As she touches the sibilant strings ! 
Play, Dorothy, play. 
Till at dying of day 
Thy music shall lull to repose 
In the twilight of purple and rose. 


'T^HE joyous students deckt in costume quaint. 

The high verse chanted in soft summer air, — 
Fresh beauty gave to Milton's golden lines, 
His noble sentiments and precepts fair. 


Her Beautiful Singing 


Q WONDROUSLY wistful and tender the somnolent 
Poured from the viol and harp and the reedy bassoon ! 
I think I could sit in the shadows and listen forever 

Rapt by the spell of the strange and enchanting soft 

With you, O my dreams, I could linger and listen forever, 
Delighted and soothed by the somnolent flow of the tune 

That weaves and upbuilds me a tangle of magical music 
Poured from the viol and harp and the reedy bassoon. 

Visions and memories waken that long have been sleeping, 

Stirred by the viol and harp and the reedy bassoon ; 
Phantoms of flowers and of songs of the far-away summers 

Rise at the sound of the haunting and eloquent tune. 
The sweep and the sway of the plaintive and somnolent 

Charm and enchant me and flood all my thought with 
the tune. 
As I dreamily sit in the shadows and listen delighted 

To the song of the viol and harp and the reedy bassoon. 


(On hearing Louise Homer) 

"D EAUTIFUL, golden, and tender with tears. 

Waking old echoes from memory's years. 
Touching his heart who with happiness hears 
The flow of her beautiful singing. 

Wonderful, sweet, the melodious roll 
Of music from some old composer's great scroll. 
Given warm life and endowed with a soul, 
By the charm of her wonderful singing ! 


Music Manuscripts 

Beautiful, yearning witli mystical power, — 
Song that is sister of cloud and of flower, — 
Long let me cherish the memoried hour 
That brought me her beautiful singing ! 


{A Victrola Record hy Alma Gluck) 

V^HAT a very, very merry song of love and laughter, 

Telling of the maidens on their happy holiday ; 
What a jolly shepherd in the mountain meadows piping,- 
Piping to the maidens in the woodlands at their play ! 

Ever could I listen to this singing sweet and tender, 
Ever could I listen to the happy shepherd play ; — 

Wonderful the art that can bring to mine own fireside 
The music and the beauty of an Alpine holiday! 


(In the New York Public Library) 

T MMORTAL music in such fragile form ; 

Such precious manuscripts, — O guard them well ! 
V^Tiat tenderness and passion must the}^ hold. 

What yearning aspiration, who may tell? 
Here Wagner has inscribed with strong bold hand 

The moving fire and ferment of his soul ; 
Here Mozart's notes minute and fairy-fine 

Are woven in a heart-revealing scroll. 
The glorious harmonics that Haydn knew, 

The majesty of Bach's great organ-peal, 
And Mendelssohn's melodious, pensive dreams, — 

These wondrous pages touchingly reveal. 

And does this yellowed stain tell where a tear 
Fell from the old composer's brimming eye 

As musingly from forth the keys he called 
Remembrances of magic days gone by.'' 


Easter Anthems 

Is this uncertain, wavering phrase the sign 

Of some great tenderness that touched his heart ; 

And does this wistful wild cadenza show 
His proud and splendid mastery of his art ? 

How may I tell the joy of that rich hour 
When high above Manhattan's roar I heard 

Immortal music sounding from the leaves 

Of those old manuscripts all dim and blurred ! 


Y^/'HAT love, what melancholy, what emotion 
Thrill the wild poets of that golden land 
Where round old Molokai the mighty ocean 

Thundering upon white leagues of shining sand 
Thrills the wild poets' hearts with deep emotion ! 

Their mournful songs throb with a savage glory 
Magnificent beyond all words to tell ; — 

Only the heart that loves can feel their story, 
Only the heart that grieves feel their wild spell 

And throb with sympathy for their sad glory. 

O could Beethoven but have known their splendor, 
How richly had he built, with these for theme, 

Some symphony of power and pathos tender. 
Leading us through an unimagined dream 

Down avenues august of mournful splendor ! 


{In the ancient Church of St. John Lateran) 

T^HE bright-stoled cardinals and bishops shone 

Like stately flowers, while high above them soared 
Celestial notes from voices of j^oung boys 

Chanting the glory of the risen Lord. 
Rome, 1893 


By Airship from Sea to Sea 


{In the Cathedral of St. Nicholas) 

A NGELIC voices soared and sighed and mourned 

In heavenly canticle and stately hymn, 
While the majestic echoes slowly died 
Adown far spaces shadowy and dim. 


/^ NCE from an old Italian hill I gazed 

Toward Greece with yearning, past all words to tell ; 
Nor nearer have I seen, save in bright dreams, 
Hellas, that holds me by her antique spell. 


LJ OW wild this spot, how rustic and remote. 

Where once the happy poet had his home 
And 'mid these ancient meadows tuned his pipes 
Far from the roar and din of dusty Rome ! 


(An Imaginary/ Voyage) 

VVriTH sure and powerful lift of mighty wings 
We towered high above the Golden Coast, 
Then heading eastward soared through azure tracts 
And vast savannahs of the buoyant air 
In steady flight toward home, — the little home 
Among the apple trees and well-loved fields 
Of our ancestral farm beside the waves 
Of old Atlantic. 

As we swung through space 
I leaned far out and saw recede and fade 
Estuary and gulf and steel-blue sea 
And endless orchard-lands and peaceful farms; 


By Airship from Sea to Sea 

Then soon we swept above Nevada's hills 
And glassy lakes inlaid in forests green, 
And so in easy smooth delightful flow 
High o'er strange melancholy chasms and cliffs 
And monstrous mountains where no human eye 
Hath ever looked, no foot of man hath ranged. 
Since old upheavals raised them from the ooze. 

Far down and faintly h,eard the eagles screamed 

Among the world-old Colorado peaks, 

Elsewise as still as death ; while warm soft rains 

Washed us from billowing clouds, and sudden ceased. 

And sunlight flashed again. Afar we soared 

O'er many an ancient winding Indian stream 

Like metal strands threading the emerald woof, 

And beautiful of name, — Osage, Sheyenne, 

Neosho, Chattanooga, Tennessee, — 

And saw the Kansas counties league on league 

Verdant with waving corn, and in the night 

Beheld pale moonlit countrysides far down 

And cities drowsy in the deep of night, — 

A phantom world of weird and silent gloom. 

— O God, how lonely and how lost we seemed. 

How far away the little fields of home, 

In those cold midnights up beneath the stars ! 

All day the steady flapping of vast wings 
That wakened boyish dreams of that great roc 
In the old Arabian tale; all night the swing 
And rhythmic pulsing of the enormous bird 
That bore us so serenely down the sky 
And faltered not in its majestic flight 
Beneath the wheeling planets strewn around 
With pale star-dust and rainy-golden mists. 
Through old immensities of chilly space. 
Among cloud-islands desolate as doom. 
Through rosy sunsets and through rosy dawns. 


By Airship from Sea to Sea 

While o'er the continent with velvet speed, — 

As of some giant gull stemming the trades, — 

We floated, now in sunlight, now in dusk. 

And gazed on far-stretched landscapes laid below, 

How fair Missouri's pampas warm and ripe 

With golden miles of wheat, how beautiful 

Kentucky's fertile meadow-lands, how fair 

Green Georgia's pines and languorous fields and fens. 

And Alabama basking in the sun! 

And now the last morn broke, and hovering 

O'er old Atlantic's rim, we saw once more 

Estuary and gulf and steel-blue sea 

And silver lapse and foaming of white waves 

For mile on mile of pearly sands, and watched 

The fishing fleets and mighty liners crawl 

Like faery barks across the wrinkled sea 

Off Carolina's coast where Hatteras 

Juts into restless ocean, and far up 

Beyond the frothy capes of Chesapeake 

Where driving gusts of storm beneath us hid 

The continent and hid the bellowing sea 

Whose hoarse voice rose about us mournfully 

In one long melancholy wail; yet still 

The vast wings oared us on our steady course, 

And pacing our small platform back and forth 

We felt the foggy damp of glooming clouds 

Drip from the sodden cordage and the sting 

Of briny fragrant breezes, — till we rushed 

Forth into flashing sunlight, coasting north 

Beyond the fields of Delaware, and last 

Came down with graceful swing and smooth descent 

Among the apple trees and well-loved fields 

That lie about our dear ancestral home 

Here by the grey Atlantic's plunging tides. 


That is the. I^ife for Mel 


npHE farmer follows the shining share 

Plowing for winter wheat, 
And while he furrows the mellow earth 
His song is lusty sweet, — 

some folks love the city, — 

'Tis there they'd rather be; 
But a co7intry wife and a country life, 

O that is the life for me! 

At the end of every furrow long 

His horses stop and steam, 
And he gazes down the wide hill-slope 

In a momentary dream. 
He looks on the roofs of his old gray home 

And thinks of the dear ones there, 
His bonnie wife with her wistful smile. 

And his children rosy-fair ; 
And he sings: 

In the smoky city 

Some folks woidd rather he; 
But the country ways and the country days, 

O they are the days for me! 

And then the horses jog along, 

And he sings with j oily cheer. 
While deep in his heart he thanks the Lord 

For home and his darlings dear. 
He thanks the Lord that a friendly fate 

Has linked him to the sod. 
Where he can live as his fathers lived 

And worship his fathers' God ; 


The Delaware River 

And plowing there for the winter wheat 
His song is lusty and brave and sweet, — 

some folks love the city, — 
'Tis there they'd rather be; 

But a country zcife and a country life, 
O that is the life for me, dear heart, 
that is the life for me! 


T^HE River, this radiant day, is wondrous fair. 

Moving majestic between the purple woods 
And the exquisite green of lawns and of level farms ; 
Its lambent silver warm in the drowsy sun. 
And broken only when some tall ship sweeps by. 
Leaving a winding wake of bubbling foam 
That swirls away into eddies and wreathing rings. 

On high the clouds of pearl and of tumbled snow 

Drift to the west and fade o'er the emerald hills. 

Followed by fuming smoke from the throbbing tugs 

That draw the flat-boats heavy with hay and Avood, 

Or take some black-hulled vessel toward the sea 

To voyage across the world ere yet again 

She sweeps with a swirl of foam between these shores 

And wakes these emerald hills with her horn's deep boom. 

Far off, two ghostly ships bear swiftly down. 

Cleaving the silver surface with steady rush 

And sending lines of ever-widening waves 

That ripple and dance among the reeds by the shore. 

The "Usk" and the "Ethelwold" they, — romantic names 

And fit for these swift, bright ships that wander wide ! 


Horace Howard Furness 

O never enough do I see of this splendid Stream, — 

Whether far up where it flows amid mountain walls, 

Primeval, beautiful, wild as in those dim days 

When the Indian warriors dwelt by its flashing tides ; 

Or where in calmer reaches it laves the fields 

Of ancient farms where quiet Quakers lived, — 

Those generations of kind, unworldly folk ; 

Or here where the stately ships set out for the sea 

With swift reverberant throb of their pulsing screws 

And swish of swirling foam that whitens the blue 

With heaving lanes of choppy, bubbling froth, — 

Tall ships, that swim in the golden sunset hour 

Through fields of lucent gold till they fade like ghosts, 

Fade and vanish afar in the misty blue 

Adown the radiant River that seeks the sea, — 

The Delaware, dear through many a memoried year. 



HO, standing by the marge of that white beach, 
Can watch the tossing seas without emotion, 
Where the great river brings its mighty flood 
To meet at last and mingle with the ocean ! 


T LOVE those stately "ships"; — a fascination 

Haunts their high steady flight above the trees, 
Circling with majestic swift gyration. 

While far-borne music floats upon the breeze. 



E seemed the soul of kindly courtesy, 

Of sunny friendship and of genial cheer ; — 
Last of our race of old-time gentlemen, 
He left a memory beloved and dear. 


Rarly Dutch Farmers 


r^ REAT Commonwealth, thy children feel deep pride 
^"^ When musing on thy history, and when 
They hear the bead-roll of those noble sons 

Whose homes and deeds make dear "the Land of Penn." 


QOUTHEY and ardent Coleridge dreamed of thee 

As noblest of the waters of the west; 
And Stevenson held thee dear; but thy own bard, 
Thy own home-poet Mifflin, loves thee best. 

AGNIFICENT the sweep of waters here, 


Down from great mountain gateways far and dim,- 
A friendly force that bears fertility 

To endless orchards, farms and gardens trim. 


LJIGH on the roll of earth's romantic streams 

Thy name, blue Juniata, still shall stand, — 
Bright river, winding league on sylvan league 
Among majestic mountains wild and grand. 


A S peacefully it flows to-day as when 

Great Penn dwelt here beside its silver tide; 
And still his tranquil spirit seems to bless 

This realm of fertile farms and orchards wide. 


COME legend lingers in Monroe and Pike 

Of antique farms along the old "Mine-road" 
O'er which the drowsy Dutchmen drove their wains 
Of cider and wheat in many a ponderous load. 


General Peter Muhlenberg 


(Tinicum Island) 
T) EMOTE and very far away they seem; 
And yet at Tinicum I find some trace, 
Some echo of that pious, thrifty folk, 

In this quaint, sleepy and old-fashioned place. 


L-I E sleeps at Womelsdorf , the good old man, 

Loved b}^ the Indians from his early youth ; 
They put their trust in him, their faithful friend. 
Their champion, armed with honesty and truth. 


/^ OOD missionary-nobleman, thy name 

We cherish still with reverent esteem. 
As his who taught the simple forest sons 

The hope of heaven and the Christian dream. 


^ OT theirs to walk the ways of public life. 

To join the forum's crowd or take up arms ; 
But still to pass their days in kindly peace 

Among their pleasant towns and thrifty farms. 


t) UTTER and Nutt and Lincoln, Potts and Bird,— 

All honor to those sturdy men of old, 
Whose furnaces and forges paved the path 
Unto our State's prosperity untold! 


' ' A TIME to preach," he said, "and time to fight,"- 

Staunch warrior-parson of heroic breed; 
One of those valiant patriots of old 

Who wrought for liberty by word and deed. 


yames Logan s House 


{Lancaster County) 

"lyiT'HAT lessons learned he from the fairy waves 
That sang to him the secret of their power, 
When here by Conowingo's winding stream 
He sailed his boats in boyhood's magic hour ! 


pREACHER beloved of Coleridge and of Lamb, 

He fed their spirits as with Heavenly lore ; 
Now 'mid the quiet Quaker graves he sleeps 
In this old town by Susquehanna's shore. 


{The home of James Buchanan) 

T GRIEVE for his lost happiness who left 

The groves and meadows of this fair estate, 
This beautiful retreat, — to waste his days 
In struggling with an all unfriendly fate. 



Q.REAT-HEARTED Pcnn; how tranquilly he looks 

Toward Shakamaxon b}' its storied stream, 
High o'er our little tumults and annoy, 
Wrapt in the mazes of his mighty dream ! 


{At Stenton) 

LJ ERE stands the stately house where Logan lived, 

A witness of the ample days of yore ; 
What antique ceremonial here hath passed. 

What noble figures thronged this welcoming door ! 


Independence Hall 


<- ^rjUTHBERT" and "Apple Tree,"— what quaint old 

Speaking of bygone days and bygone men ! 
Amid their mouldering beauty one may walk 
And almost see the small town loved by Penn. 



LJERE is a fragment, perfectly preserved, 

Of that small old-time city of our sires. 
Through such a precinct might "Hugh Wynne" have 
To greet his ships home from the English shires. 


( Philadelphia ) 

T^ HE roaring traffic throngs the streets beyond, 

But in this tranquil byway peace still reigns ; 
And here at twilight, ancient worthies walk, 
And ghostly faces peer from out the panes. 



LJ ARD by the olden streets he loved so well. 

All heedless now he sleeps, the genial sage; 
Type of our New World wisdom, sense and thrift, — 
His memory greener grows from age to age. 


TN calm and simple dignity it stands, 

Matchless memorial of heroic years. 
What lover of our land can pace these halls 
And muse upon their past untouched by tears ! 


The Philadelphia Cathedral 


T) EFORE the pictured patriots on these walls 
How good it is in reverent mood to stand, 
Musing upon their valiant loyalty 

And their triumphant spirit calm and grand! 



Y^HO holds great shrines and stately halls alone 

Worthy of worship and illustrious fame? 
Behold the endless pilgrim stream that seeks 
This little, lowly house of noble name. 


{^St. James* Chtirch, Chester) 

LJERE sleeps the Signer who in his last hour 

Still gloried in his life's consummate deed, 
When with those hero-hearts of '76 

He set his name to Freedom's new-born creed. 


(Christ Church, Philadelphia) 

l-I E wrought with noble heart and spacious mind 

To guide our young Republic on its way. 
How fitting that his dust at last is laid 
By this historic temple old and gray ! 


LJERE daily many a soul finds solace true 

In revery and prayer 'neath this great dome, 
'Mid all the antique beauty that makes fair 

Their faith who love the mother-church of Rome. 


Arch Street M, E. Church 


\^7HEN in cathedral aisles I walked to-day, 

Then went and worshipped with the tranquil 
Friends, — 
How beautiful they seemed, those sister Faiths, 
Each in its own way seeking noble ends ! 



V^HAT recollections haunt these hallowed stones 

Caressed by vines and many a fondling flower, — 
'Round this old church where Washington communed, 
Finding deep peace through many a tranquil hour ! 



nPHE yearning twilight hymn, the reverent rites, 
The gracious words of hope, the organ's roll, 
All speak to me of him, — here well-beloved, — 
Of Phillips Brooks, that great and simple soul. 


(West Philadelphia) 

T IKE that old London church where Goldsmith lies, 

It dreams in silence near the surging street, — 
A quiet refuge, offering to all men 

The solace of a faith benign and sweet. 



"VTO lover of the Gothic's noble power 

And beauty as of the spirit, but must feel 
The charm of this white church whose gracious spire 
Points to the heavens with beautiful appeal. 


The Old Chew Mansion 


g RADFORD, Meredith, Binney, Biddle, Rawle, 
Brewster, and many another honored name. 
Make bright the roll of wise and courteous men 
Who give our Philadelphia Bar its fame. 


{University of Pennsylvania) 

V^ILSON and Sharswood are remembered here; 

'Mid the great jurists' names theirs hold high place, 
Here where their noble lore fitly is taught 
In halls adorned with dignity and grace. 


1\/f EN smile and step more lightly down the street. 

Young girls hum o'er the tune, the children dance. 
And trees and grass and flowers in that old square 
Gleam in the golden sunlight of romance. 



nr O one who wanders down these sylvan slopes. 

Amid these lanes of bowering greenwood old. 
There comes a dream of ancient Arcady 
And happy islands of the Age of Gold. 



A S quaintly dignified it seems to-day. 

Its old-time beauty is as stately yet, 
As when it stood in midst of Freedom's war 
Or later welcomed glorious La Fayette. 


The Old Meeting-House 



"QREAMING of Washington and Jefferson— 

Of their deliberations once the scene — 
It standeth like some veteran of old time, 
Peaceful and patient, dignified, serene. 


V\/^ITH Salamis it ranks, and Waterloo, 

In Freedom's annals glorious and bright. 
Where ocean-floods of Error surged in vain 
Against the serried champions of Right. 


{Fairmount Park) 

f: CTERNNESS and pity warring in his breast, 
^ His calm eyes glowing with supernal light. 

He rides as in those days at Gettysburg — 
Our own home-hero, matchless in his might. 


T ONG have I loved that fair, romantic stream 
Whose sylvan music charmed me as a child ; 
Fair stream, now winding 'mid the peaceful farms. 
And now 'mid woodlands beautiful and wild. 


{On Brandywine Battle-field) 

V\7HERE once around this olden Quaker shrine 

Thundered the boom of guns and trumpet's blare. 
Now golden harvests crown the peaceful hills 
And balmy roses scent the summer air. 


General Anthony Wayne 


LJ OW simple, touching, beautiful it is. 

This little church among its ancient trees 
Set like some Old-World isle of heavenly calm 
Amid our troubled time's uncertain seas! 


{Near Embreeville) 

T AST of her race, the lonely Indian lies 

Beside Wawassan's wild and wandering stream ; 
And where her fathers led the forest chase, 

Now farms and orchards lie in peaceful dream. 


(Chester County) 

l\/f ASON and Dixon spent a winter here 

"Star-gazing" by the frozen Brandywine; 
And this their quaint rude stone is standing yet 
Memorial of the laying of their "Line." 


{Chester County) 

QTILL grow the oaks, magnolias and pines 

Which he, the friend of Franklin, planted here ; 
And in the ancient county where he dwelt 
Our Quaker sage's memory is dear. 


T F "mad" at all, thou wert but nobly mad, 

And fearless 'mid the roar of hostile guns. 
Intrepid hero, well thy mother-shire 

Holdeth thee high 'mid her immortal sons ! 


Great Pennsylvania 


A T Longwood lies the dust of him we loved, 

Lulled by the birds and summer breezes soft ; 
And o'er yon hills his deep-loved Kennett grieves 
For him who sang of her at "Cedarcroft." 


1— IE ART of Penn's ancient county, — well I love 

Thy kindly homes, thy streets, thy pealing chimes, 
Thy fields and groves, and old historic haunts 
Still fragrant with the charm of bygone times. 


THHEY do misjudge thee much who take as type 
An ignorant mob with helpless passion blind. 
Rather, I think of thy old sturdy stock 

Of folk benignant, upright, gracious, kind. 


' IV/f ID England's mighty dead in tranquil sleep 

He rests, beside great London's central roar, — 
The Quaker painter, who in boyhood roamed 

These fields and watched the sunset from this door. 


A^T'HEN sunset lays its charm on these weird oaks 
And fills with faerie glamour all the wood, 
How easy seem old legends to believe. 

How near the ballad-days of Robin Hood ! 


/^ REAT Commonwealth, what child of thine but loves 
Thy hills and streams and fields of rich increase — 
Woodland-of-Penn, set 'mid thy neighbor States, 
Eternal pledge of Brotherhood and Peace! 





LOVE thy virgin woodland streams 

That in deep meadows croon their ancient dreams, 

Bright rivers born of forest fountains 
And lit by sunny gleams, 

Cradled afar among thy lonely mountains ; 
On their primeval charm the Indians set 
INIelodious names remembered 3^et : 

Juniata, Monongaliela, 
Allegheny, Susquehanna, 
Wawassan, Conewango, 


I love thy verdant, widespread, fertile shires, 
Settled by our heroic sires 

And called by them from those gray homeland places 
By Old World croft and mere. 

Round which our antique races 
Wove their devotion deep and dear 
Through year on historied year : 

Lancaster, Lawrence, 
Cameron, Cambria, 

Somerset, Huntingdon, 


I love thy pleasant towns ; each seems to stand 
The peaceful heart of its green land, — 

Quaint towns wherein what kindly recollection. 
What warmth of heart and hand 

Keep olden memories fresh; what leal affection 



Cherishes with its genial spell 

Saxon and Celtic names loved long and well !- 

Darhy, Kennett, 

Birmingham, Selkirk, 
Powys, Duncannon, 
Gwynedd, Tyrone, 


I love the sites that history enrolls 
High on her honored scrolls, 

The fields that give our Commonwealth a glory, 
A legendary fame 

Magnificent in song and story. 
Peace-lovers though Ave be, deep were his shame 
Who loved not each immortal name, — 

Valley Forge, 

Brandy wine Battlefield, 
Gettysburg, Germantown! 

Thy streams, thy mountains, thy deep woods. 
Thy pleasant towns and pastoral solitudes. 

Where Old-World folk, Scotch-Irish, German, Quaker, 
Led forth by zeal divine. 

Sought liberty to praise their Maker, — 
Stir every son of thine 
To loyalt}^ undying, noble, fine, 

Great Keystone State, 
Beloved Pennsylvania! 


Crowned and Sainted 


XJERE came the Founder in the far-off days, 

And 'mid these fields and by this noble stream 
In rustic quiet loved to meditate 

Upon the young republic of his dream. 


{In Memory of Susan B. Anthony) 

QROWNED is she and sainted 

In heavenly halls above, 
Who freely gave for her sisters 
A life of boundless love. 

I saw a strange, rich vision, 

I heard strange music ring, 
As I dreamed o'er my well-loved poets 

On a night in the early spring, 

I mused o'er the great-souled Wordsworth 

(Oh, to me he is half divine!). 
And I found again in his pages 

The song with the beautiful line 
That tells of the perfect woman, 

In whose spirit blithe and bright 
There shines like a consecration 

A gleam of angelic light. 

And I seemed to behold in my vision 

The sorrows of all the years ; 
I heard the women pleading, 

Pleading with soft, warm tears ; 
And ever above the praying, 

Above the sorrowful song. 
And the tender, wistful grieving 

For the long, long years of wrong, 


Crowned and Sainted 

I heard them speak of the leader, 
In whose spirit rare and bright 

Should shine like a consecration 
A gleam of angelic light. 

I saw the nation toiling 

In grief and darkness lost, 
Like a ship on the pathless ocean, 

O'erwhelmed and tempest-tost. 
There was need of a faithful pilot, 

There was need of a God-sent hand, 
To guide o'er the pathless ocean 

To guide to the longed-for land; 
And oh, there was need of the woman 

In whose spirit sweet and bright 
Should shine like a benediction 

A gleam of angelic light. 

Like pilgrims wandering the woodlands 

In a country wild and strange. 
Who daily front new dangers. 

And sigh for the blessed change 
Of kind and friendly faces, 

Of dreamed-of comrades dear, 
The comfort of friendly firesides 

And pleasant household cheer, — 
So sighed the toiling people 

For her in whose spirit bright 
Should shine like a consecration 

A gleam of angelic light. 

And then I saw in my vision 

How the mighty of earth grew proud; 
They scorned their humbler brethren, 

They laughed at the lowly crowd. 
Ah me, to think of the folly 

And fashion that fill our days! 


Crowned and Sainted 

Ah me, to think of our scorning 

Our fathers' simpler ways ! 
Ah me, to think of the greedy 

And godless kings of the mart, — 
And then to think of our hunger 

For one great human heart! 

The land was weak and helpless. 

It lacked the leader true 
Who should cure it of its blindness. 

Who should break a pathway through 
The wall of outworn tradition 

That still around us stands, 
Ready to yield and crumble 

At the touch of heroic hands, — 
Hands of noble heroes 

Fearless and great and strong, 
Wlio shall heal the old-time evils 

And the centuries of wrong. 
In my vision I saw those heroes, — 

And there by the men of might 
Stood their sisters consecrated, 

With eyes of angelic light. 

And was one sister foremost 

Among those women there? 
And who was she whose bearing 

Made her seem so queenly fair? 
Was it high-souled Mary Lyon, 

Uplifting her sisters' lot? 
Was it the saintly Quaker, 

Our own Lucretia Mott? 
Was it noble Frances Willard, 

Wlio strove as angels may? 
Was it the loved and lost one 

Whose passing we mourn to-day? 


Robert Fulton 

Nay, none of any was foremost, 

But hand in blessed hand 
They stood as Olympian women 

On old Greek friezes stand. 
All shared a common glory, 

All were linked by the fate 
That gave them names undying 

In the annals of the State. 
But the newest comer among them 

Gazed 'round and serenely smiled 
As her sisters turned to greet her 

With heavenly motions mild. 

And then my vision faded, 

And a lordly melody rolled, 
As down celestial vistas 

The saintly company strolled. 
But the face of that latest comer 

I longest kept in sight, — 
So ardent with consecration, 

So lit with angelic light. 
And I woke from my wondrous vision, 

And oh, my heart beat strong! — 
I had seen the perfect woman 

Of Wordsworth's beautiful song. 

Crowned is she and sainted 
In heavenly halls above, 
Who freely gave for her sisters 
A life of boundless love. 


JN Little Britain, close by old Drumore 

And Conowingo's waters silvery-clear 
That sing among these hills and drowsy fields, 
Upon a day of mystery and dream 
And peaceful country calm, — was born a boy 


Robert Fulton 

Gifted by God and destined in his time 
To knock at Fame's high portals, yea, to lift 
This wa^'side hamlet into bright renown 
And make old Fulton House a name to ring 
Across the centuries. 

To-day he sleeps 
Beside the stately Hudson, where the noise 
Of endless traffic surges evermore 
Round Trinity's most venerable shrine, 
— More fit I think it were he rested here 
In some lone country grave-yard's peaceful shade. 
Lulled by the songs of birds and country streams, 
'Mid these dear fields his earliest childhood knew. 

It was a day of mystery and dream, 

When he was born, by Conowingo's banks ; 

Its peace and stillness filled the joyous house. 

Its peace and stillness flowed along the veins 

And round the warm heart of that winsome child, — 

Grave Mystery, that in the ripening years 

Should fill his deep, dark eyes with wonderment. 

And harmonize his moods with Nature's own, — 

With winds that stir the leaves of solemn oaks. 

With flow of river waters, song of waves. 

And endless chanting of the little streams 

That wind and wander through these tranquil fields. 

Those quiet country hours so beauteous 

With golden peace and charm, filled his young heart 

With magic Dream, whose strange enchanting force 

In boyhood's budding years and youth's rich hours 

Should ripen fancy's blooms and wake to life 

Imagination's seed, — a glorious gift, — 

Promise of harvest and immortal fruit ! 

Heaven-gifted boy, — how he would feed his thought 
In day-long wanderings and lonely strolls 


Robert Fulton 

Through yonder meadows round old Lancaster, — 

His youthful home, — or here in Little Britain 

When summer holidays had called the lad 

For happy hours on Conowingo's banks ! 

Far up and down this fair enchanting stream, 

Among these woods and by these peaceful farms 

In Little Britain and in dear Drumore, 

He roamed delightedly; oft would he pause 

By fairy waterfals to hear their song 

And muse upon the sweeping current's force; 

Or on the smooth deep stretches he would sail 

His tiny boats for many a summer hour; 

Or 'mid the dusty air of stream-side mills 

Would watch the great wheel turning steadily 

In green twilight 'mid dripping moss and fern. 

And farther roaming, as I think, he sat 
High on the slopes of Susquehanna's hills 
To meditate and muse upon the power 
And noble splendor of that lordly stream 
Winding far down between the emerald hills 
'Mid "river islands that in clusters lie 
As beautiful as clouds." — O who may tell 
What unsuspected strength and high resolve 
He gathered from the sight and from the thought 
Of that majestic and mysterious stream! 

From Indian waters of melodious name, — 
From Conowingo and great Susquehanna, 
From Octorara's wild, romantic stream. 
And Conestoga where he first essayed 
The art that was to make his name renowned, — 
From these and from old Lancaster County's farms 
And woods and wayside smithies and old mills, 
No less than from yon neighboring city's shops, 
Her forges and her foundries, did he build ,, 
His lore, his craft, his high-aspiring art, 


Honor and Homage 

This Heaven-gifted boy ; and when the hour 

Was ripe for harvesting his spirit's fruit, 

How noble his achievement, how superb 

His victory, how splendid his account 

Of gifts wherewith he had been dowered from Heaven ! 

Yea, Mystery and Dream had guided him; 
The eager youth obeyed their kindly law 
And followed where they pointed to the stars. 
— So did he lift this hamlet to renown, 
This quiet village by the silver stream 
Of Conowingo winding through these fields ; 
So did he make old well-loved Fulton House 
A name to echo through uncounted years. 


{Read at the Dedication of the Soldiers' and Sailors' 
Monument, Media, Pa.) 

LJONOR and homage in this hour we render. 

Honor and homage, yea, the patriot's meed. 
With song, with music and with martial splendor 
We praise the heroes' deed. 

Yet what can our poor words add to their story, 
^Vhat song of ours augment their certain fame? 

Theirs is a sure serenity of glory. 
Theirs an immortal name ! 

From field and forge, from many a quiet village. 
They gathered when the nation called to arms; — 

Farewell to peaceful toil and fruitful tillage 
Of loved ancestral farms. 

Farewell to hearts and homes, perchance forever, 
To wife and clinging little ones farewell; 

Ah, me, that men these holy ties should sever 
With battle's awful knell ! 


Honor and Homage 

They questioned not — our heroes — but when Duty 
Sounded across the land her summons dire, 

They left their tranquil fields and vales of beauty 
In this old Quaker shire. 

Through dark and anguished days on field and ocean, 
Wliat deeds were theirs, their children's children know, 

What sacrifice of sorrowing devotion 
Against a valiant foe. 

For them was sorrow and for them was weeping ; 

Back to these hills of home they came no more. 
Their grieving comrades left them softly sleeping 

By far-off hill and shore. 

They softly sleep in bivouac eternal 

On lonely fields beneath a southern sky, 

And o'er their quiet graves in seasons vernal 
Creep tender wood-flowers shy. 

Where rolled the thunder of the cannon's booming, 
White flowers of peace wave in the Summer air ; 

Those storied hills are fragrant with the blooming 
Of roses soft and fair. 

And to these few survivors old and hoary 
Fulness of honor and of love we yield, — ■ 

What though fate gave them not the dreadful glory 
Of falling on the field. 

Those, who in starry youth were doomed to perish — 
These, whom the Lord hath granted length of days — 

With equal reverence their land shall cherish. 
Their native county praise. 

This stately monument shall stand a token, 

A consecrated mentor to our youth. 
Serene and pure as simple faith unbroken. 

Steadfast as simple truth. 


A Child of Ocean 

Let its high teaching be forgotten never 

While it shall stand to touch the heart to tears ; 

And may its guardian soldier look forever 
On sweet and peaceful years ! 



By Severn Sea 

"l^E gathered roses, she and I, 

And poppies on the purple lea ; 
We threw them in the yellow tide 
And saw them float on Severn Sea. 

I sailed away the morrow morn, 

And watched her waving from the lea ; — 

And would to God that I might sleep 
Beneath the tides of Severn Sea ! 

For when I came another year 

And hastened to the purple lea, 
They showed me one low grave beside 

The moaning tides of Severn Sea. 


A Child of Ocean 

You seemed part of all loveliness 

Of that sweet summer day ; 
Yours was the wild sea-rose's red, 

The white of blowing spray. 

Wild, wonderful sea-music 

Seemed singing, Dear, through you, — 
The old immortal witchery 

That once Ulysses knew. 


A Southern Girl 

O child of wind and ocean, 

Wild roses and white spray, 
Why did you break my yearning heart 

That fatal summer day? 


In Heurick's Garden 

Sweet-heart Cecily, you and I 
In Herrick's garden over the sea 

Watched the butterflies sailing, sailing 
Over the grassy Devon lea. 

Cecily, Sweet-heart, sweet our day 
In Herrick's garden over the sea ; 

And 'mid the Poet's old white roses 
We plighted troth by the grassy lea. 

Sweet-heart, Cecily, sweet our parting 
In Herrick's garden over the sea ; 

There 'mid the butterflies, sailing, sailing, 
I left my love by the Devon lea. 

O, Cecily, Sweet-heart, home returning 
To Herrick's garden over the sea, 

Your sailor lover found you sleeping 
Forever under the grassy lea ! 


A Southern Girl 

Some memory as of dreaming years 

Long, long before the War 
She seems to bring to our grey skies 

From olden Baltimore. 

The charm of far-off southern days 
Like roses breathes from her ; 

Her fine and tranquil ways rebuke 
Our fruitless noise and stir. 


Golden Dora 

Most womanly and true is she, — 
All me, where shall we find 

Another lass so blithe of heart, 
So beautiful, so kind! 

On Breden Hill 

Rosalie mine, do you remember 
Our twilight walk on Breden Hill, 

And how we heard the rapturous thrushes 
Sing to the twilight star their fill ? 

Sweet was the rapturous song of the thrushes, 
But O your words were sweeter still! 

And the twilight star was long a-slumber 
When we came home o'er Breden Hill. 

Rosalie's voice and the rapturous thrushes 
And our twilight walk on Breden Hill — 

My lonely heart alone must cherish. 
For Rosalie's lonely heart is chill. 

O lost, lost Rosalie — I remember ! 

And I know the thrushes are singing still, 
Though I wander half a world asunder 

From Rosalie's grave on Breden Hill. 


Golden Dora 

Golden Dora, 

I remember 
How we plucked the scarlet poppies 
In the weeping- willow meadow 
All among the dreamy rushes 
By the Avon; 


Marian Mar low 

By the Avon, 

In September, 
Where the drowsy scarlet poppies 
In the weeping-willow meadow 
By their splendor gave no token 
Of my anguish, 

Of my anguish, 

In December, 
When I wandered drear and lonely 
In the weeping-willow meadow 
Where you sleep below the poppies, — 
Golden Dora. 


Marian Maelow 

Marian Marlow, wistful Marian, 
What was the song you sang for me 

While slow I paced in the sleepy twilight 
There by the shore of the Irish Sea? 

Pacing there in the sleepy twilight, 
Musing deep on the vanished years, — 

Ah, how your music, Marian Marlow, 
Touched my lonely heart to tears ! 

Old and wild and all regretful, 
Marian Marlow, your song to me ; 

Not sadder seemed the moaning billows 
Rolling in from the moaning sea. 

What strange touch of old enchanment, 
Marian Marlow, dwelt in your song. 

Weird old Irish melancholy. 

Sorrows suffered long and long.? 


In the Cathedral 

A lost and lovely and faery magic 
Abides in the song 3'ou sang for m'e, 

Marian Marlow, wistful Marian, 
There by the shore of the Irish Sea. 

Marian Marlow, wistful Marian, 
Was it yester-year or years ago 

I dreamed I heard by the moaning billows 
That selfsame song with its surge and flow, 

Its surge and flow and its yearning cadence 
Calling to me from the vanished years, 

While here by the Irish Sea I wandered 
And felt the rush of unbidden tears? 

I may not tell why it strangely moved me, 
Its magic pathos I may not tell ; 

But ever your song, O Marian Marlow, 

Shall hold my heart with its wondrous spell. 


In the Cathedral 

Beyond the golden organ tones 
And silver horns of soft acclaim 

I seemed to hear your angel voice 
And dream upon your lovely name. 

They sent soft incense through the aisles, 
They raised on high the holy wine ; — 

I only seemed to scent your hair 
And dream upon your face divine. 

O am I pagan thus to kneel 

In this grey shrine with ardor faint. 

And 'mid the praying folk devout 
To dream upon my own sweet saint.'' 


With Shakespeare in Warwickshire 



I watched you in the dreamy dance 

Beside the sunlit summer sea ; 
Your winsome grace, your pensive glance 

They thrilled the lonely heart of me. 

I watched you wander down the sand 

At eve beside the sunset sea ; 
And O, one touch of that soft hand 

What benediction 'twere to me ! 

You vanished round the curving shore 
Beyond the vast and moonlit sea ; 

And wistful yearning evermore 
Must fill the lonely heart of me. 


{¥or the students of West Chester Friends' School) 

"V/'OUNG friends of mine, here at the end of May, 

When Chester County's fields are bright and gay, 
Will you not sail in spirit o'er the sea 
And roam in Shakespeare's Warwickshire with me? 

Along about the first of June, 

When all the world is well in tune, 

Wlien buds and blossoms fill the fields 

And bird-songs fill the air — 

Who would not ramble hand in hand 

In Shakespeare's happy wonderland 

With Perdita and Imogen and Rosalind the fair! 

O, to ramble and amhle with Shakespeare in Warwickshire, 

In hours of early summer, when all the world is fair! 


With Shakespeare in Warwickshire 

Then at the shearing-feast we'd haply hear 

These words of Perdita, warm-hearted, dear : 

"Give me those flowers, there, Dorcas, Reverend sirs. 

For you there's rosemary and rue; these keep 

Seeming and savor all the winter long: 

Grace and remembrance be to you both. 

And welcome to our shearing! 

* * * * Daffodils, 

That come before the swallow dares, and take 

The winds of March with beauty; violets dim. 

But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes 

Or Cytherea's breath." 

So would she speak, this "queen of curds and cream," 

The sweet creation of the Poet's dream. 

Along about the first of June 

Who would not ramble 'neath the moon 

With Lorenzo and Jessica 

And hear their words of joy ; 

Or by a bank of sweet woodbine. 

Of muskrose and of eglantine. 

Hear Oberon rebuke his Queen about a bonnie boy ! 

O, to ramble and amble with Shakespeare in Warwickshire, 

In hours of early sumvier, when earth is full of joy! 

Then would the elves that round Titania throng 
Sing her "a roundel and a fairy song :" 

"You spotted snakes with do7ible tongue. 

Thorny hedge-hogs, be not seen; 

Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong. 

Come not near our fairy queen. 

Philomel, with melody 

Sing in our sweet lullaby; 

Never harm. 

Nor spell, nor charm 

Come our lovely lady nigh; 

So, good night, with lullaby; 

So, good night, with lullaby." 


Along about the first of June 

It would not be a bit too soon 

To roam with merry Touchstone adown the forest dales, 

Where Caliban and Ariel 

Should fool us with their fancy's spell 

And jolly old Autolycus should tell us merry tales. 

0, to ramble and amble with Shakespeare in Warwickshire, 

In hours of early summer, adown the forest dales! 

And then as we sat in a random ring 

Our j oily Autolycus would sing : — 

" When daffodils begin to peer. 
Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year. 
The lark that tirra-lyra chants. 
Are summer songs for me and my aunts. 


Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way. 
And merrily hent the stile-a: 
A merry heart goes all the day 
Your sad tires in a mile-a." 

O, to ramble and amble with Shakespeare in Warwickshire, 
In hours of early summer, when all the world is gay ! 
May, 1916 


"Soul of the beautiful! with upturned face, 
A world waits reverent in this holy place. 
Where is the secret land from which she fares, 
From sun to sun dissolving all our cares?" 

'M'OT only on an appointed day of November, not only 
on the Sabbath-day of each week, should we pause 
and think of our blessings. — 

Every season, every day and hour, let us be filled with 
glad thankfulness, 



Helping, if we may, to overcome the clouds of disap- 
pointment or grief with the sunshine of joy. 

Grief and the memories that abide in the stricken heart 
are holy and not to be put aside; 

Yet a calm and wise joyfulness, a rational striving for 
tranquil contentment, can soothe and cheer, and tenderly 
soften the bitterness of sorrow. 

As bright days outnumber stormy days, as gentleness 
and patience overcome hostility, — so should our days and 
hours of cheerfulness outnumber, in ever greater propor- 
tion, our intervals of gloom and discouragement. 

The spirit of gratitude, the deliberate thinking upon 
our blessings, will help us wonderfully to gain this cheer- 
fulness and contented tranquillity. 


The good All-Father surely gave us this beautiful and 
radiant earth for our full enjoyment and high benefit. 

He sends more light than darkness, more warmth than 
cold, more friendliness than enmity. 

Then let us be thankful for our manifold blessings and 
gifts that make life noble; 

Thankful for the kindness of our friends and the glad- 
some faces of those who love us and wish us well; 

For the dear affection that binds the family circle close 
together and makes home the beloved place it is ; 

For the unending love of fathers and mothers for their 
little ones, and the devotion of children to their parents ; 

For the tender care of the stronger over the weak. 

The protecting and chivalrous regard of strength for 


Let us be thankful for the responsibilities that urge us 
to wholesome and profitable labor. 

For the evidences of sober thrift that surround us ; 
For the towns and villages with their comfortable dweU- 

ings, — 



The attractive cottages of the working-folk, embowered 
with honej'suckles and roses, — ■ 

The spacious and dignified mansions built by the an- 
cestors of those who maintain the family traditions of 
wise conservatism and old-fashioned courtesy and hos- 
pitality ; 

Thankful for the antique Quaker farm-houses that 
stand amid their venerable trees. 

With their sheltering roofs, holding so much that is 
precious and dear, — 

The portraits and relics of those who have gone, and 
their sacred memories intangible but beautiful. 

The living presences of their descendants, — the sturdy 
fathers, the gentle affectionate mothers, 

The happy and hearty children, rosy and bright-e3red, 

All gathered round the ruddy hearth in winter twilights, 
or beneath the orchard boughs in the blossomy days of 

Or among the golden wheat in the warm ripe harvest 

Let us be thankful for the deep-seated patriotism of 
these kindly people, for their simplicity and quiet sin- 

For their sensible neglect of disturbing agitators who 
know not the foundations of true comfort and prosperity. 


When we roam through the countryside in our daily 
walks, let us think with heartfelt gratitude of the abun- 
dance yielded by the goodly earth to the tillers of the soil, 
the plowman and the reapers of the golden grain, 

Of the great stone barns with their mows heaped high 
with sweet hay for the cows and the mild-eyed oxen of 
mighty strength. 

Of the granaries with their rich stores of yellow corn 
and oats that have ripened on the breezy hill-sides. 



Let us think with gratitude of the mellow apples and 
pears, the downy peaches and the purple plums that grow 
in the olden orchards, 

That bend the branches with their luscious weight, and 
delight the heart of the thrifty farmer. 

Let us think with gratitude of the flowers that adorn 
the door-3'^ards and the green lawns and sunny garden- 
walks, — 

The old-time silken hollyhocks and the pungent mari- 
golds beloved by our grandmothers, and the lilacs beau- 
tiful and sweet-scented, 

The purple phlox that dreams in the drowsy sunshine 
of late summer. 

The red, red roses of June, and their sisters the white 
roses and the yellow, 

The spicy chrysanthemums that gladden the garden in 
the melancholy, late autumn days, — 

All the sweet, friendly flowers that have a charm de- 
lightful beyond words. 

Let us give silent gratitude for the spruces and hem- 
locks and the lofty pines. 

Green and fragrant trees that cheer us amid the white 
wastes of frozen winter; 

Gratitude for the cherry trees and apple trees that glow 
with white and rosy blossoms in the exquisite April hours ; 

For the oaks and sycamores, stately and magnificent, 
that hold the secrets of the old bygone years in their 
mighty hearts. 

That breathe forth from their murmuring leaves their 
nature-lore to all who will rightly listen. 

Let us be thankful of heart for the green wildwood 

For the great peace of the shadowy forests, God's own 
cathedral aisles, 



For the warm fragrance of ferns and the music of moun- 
tain streams, 

Thankful of heart when we hear the winds playing 
among the tree-tops their godlike harmonies ; 

Thankful for the august pageantry of the storm-cloud 
and the majestic symphony of the thunder; 

Thankful when we hear the gushing and jubilant song 
of the birds, 

The delicious joy of the robins and black-birds in the 
silvery mornings of spring. 

The pathos of the meadow-larks calling across the fields 
of nodding clover; 

Thankful when we hear the bells of churches chiming 
grandly from their heaven-pointing steeples, — 

Calling men to worship and pray, in the peaceful Sab- 
bath mornings or at the holy vesper hour; 

Thankful when we hear the lowing of cattle, the cooing 
of doves, 

The fairy song of meadow streams, and the laughter of 
merry children. 

The tinkle of sheep-bells, and the cheery voice of the 
farmer among his fields. 


For all noble books let us be eternally grateful, — 
Books that hand on to us the wisdom and glory of 
prophets and saints of olden time, 

Or that elevate and enchant us with the meditations and 
lyric melodies of more recent writers, — 

For the Psalms and the precious and comforting Beati- 

For the words of Socrates and of Buddha, 
For the stately cantos of Spenser and Milton, 
The heart-warming essa^^s of dear Charles Lamb, the 
sweet and moving poems of Wordsworth and Shelley. 




For the goodness and nobility that environ us round 
let us be deeply grateful, — 

For the tranquil, unassuming people who perform their 
tasks cheerfully, and show patience in affliction, 

Who seem to make this earth a pathway to heaven by 
their Christian fortitude and their brotherly and sisterly 
kindness of manner and deed. 

Who are but humbler members of the immortal com- 
pany that includes Francis of Assisi and George Fox, 

Florence Nightingale and Leo Tolstoy, and all who have 
lifted humanity to nobler heights. 

* * * 

So shall the thankful heart prevail in us through every 

And when the evening comes, we shall pause as at the 
summons of some unseen angelus bell. 

And thank the All-Father for his gift to us of home- 
coming and peaceful love and night-long rest from labor. 


^ECILY, daughter of dreams, 
Sister of flowers and birds, 
What do the wind-voices sing 
To thy spirit musing apart 
Far in the Brandywine hills? 
What do the waterfalls sing 
Tumbling over cool rocks 
In ferny and shadowy dales.'' 

O miss not the message they bear, 
Voices primeval and sweet, 
Tliat speak unto those who will hear, 
And feed with their magical song 
Hearts that are tuned to their hearts, — 
Cecily, daughter of dreams. 
Sister of flowers and birds. 

KartK s Fair Divinity 


rj^OR earth's fair divinity 
Grateful must the Poet be. 

He alone it is who knows 

All the beauty of the rose; 

He alone it is may hear 

The softest tones of rivers clear, 

And the passionate half-words 

In the fervent songs of birds ; 

He alone whose eye may see 

All the lily's purity, 

All the silver of the rills, 

All the glory of the hills, 

And Nature's universal face 

Clothed with beauty and with grace: 
And in heart rejoiceth he 
For earth's fair divinity. 

The cloud-strewn heavens to his sight 

Bring illusions infinite ; 

Wondrous shadow-shapes they show 

Fairer than the earth may know, — 

Drifting cities hung aloft 

Circled round by meadows soft. 

Forests of fantastic trees. 

Azure isles in silver seas, 

Argosies of airy shapes 

Coasting by the crystal capes. 

Filmy shallops zephyr-fanned 

Sailing out of fairy-land. 

Ever changing, ever new, 

To the Poet's raptured view 

All too brief their glory seems. 

Vanishing like faded dreams. 

Then in heart rejoiceth he 
For earth's fair divinity. 


The Children s Fishi 


When the dying sun is low 

All the firmament doth glow, 

And a golden splendor sweeps 

Down across the lucent deeps. 

There are amber mountain sides 

Washed around by rosy tides, 

Crimson rivers rolling far 

Over the horizon's bar, 

Purple gulfs and irised bays 

Shimmering in lucent haze, 

Till their loveliness expires 

Melting far in fleecy fires. 

Then in heart rejoiceth he 
For earth's fair divinity. 

In his soul this thought hath birth, — 

All the loveliness of earth 

Is a syvibol and a sign 

Of the joy of the divine. 

Teaching man that beauty mortal 

Is hut as an outer portal. 

Paling zvhen the spirit's sight 

Resteth on the Infinite. 

Then in heart rejoiceth he 
For earth's fair divinity. 


"V\7E threw care away 

On that bright July day, 
For the weather was truly divine, 
And we all had been wishing 
To go off a-fishing 
In the sleepy old Brandywine. 
Our sweet girls and boys 
Love all country joys; 
But chiefly, as I opine, 


The Children's Fishin 


They love to leave home 

And go off to roam 

For a day by the Brandywine. 

So Georgie and Will 

Their baskets did fill, 

For they knew we should want to dine, 

And Peggy and Kate 

They put in some bait 

For the fish in the Brandywine ; 

And flaxen-haired Ellen 

And blithe-hearted Helen 

Brought the hooks and lots of line. 

And Stella she made 

Some good lemonade 

To drink by the Brandywine. 

Nor did we o'erlook 

Izaak Walton's old Book 

Where the sun seems ever to shine, 

For we knew we should need 

His dear pages to read 

'Neath the trees by the Brandywine. 

We joyfully heard 

The song of each bird 

That lives in those meadows divine ; 

And merry and sweet 

In the acres of wheat 

They sang by the Brandywine. 

How lovely the gleam 

Of the sun on the stream 

Through the long afternoon's decline ! 

And how fragrant the hay 

In windrows that lay 

In the fields by the Brandywine ! 

Far away and aloft 

So dreamy and soft 

Cloud-islands in wavering line 

Melted down to the west 


The Children s Fishing 

To their haven of rest 

O'er the hills by the Brandywine. 

As they sat in the shade 

What a picture they made, 

Sweet lassies and laddies fine! 

My words are too faint 

The picture to paint 

Of that scene by the Brandywine. 

But true joy is soon past, — 

Our day ended at last, 

And as farmers were calling their kine 

We sang a sweet lyric 

From old Robin Herrick 

And turned from the Brandywine. 

But what of the fish. 

And what of our wish 

To bring home a well-laden line 

Of perch and of bass. 

Each laddie and lass, 

That day from the Brandywine? 

Did we follow the rule 

Of the old Angler's school, 

Honest Izaak's, who tells every sign. 

Every pool and each nook, 

In his charming old Book 

Which we read by the Brandywine.? 

How much did we harp 

On that wondrous big carp 

That swallowed twelve feet of our line.'' 

And what did we say 

Of the fat bass that day 

That we — missed, in the Brandywine.? 

To give you a list 

Of the fish we just missed 

Would wear out your patience and mine. 

For with never an eel 

Or a fish in our creel 




We returned from the Brandywine! 

But George says : "Don't laugh, 

For the littlest half 

Of such trips is to catch a full line ; 

But the long happy hours 

With the birds and the flowers — 

That's real joy for the Brandywine!" 


T-T ERE at ending of my Book 
As I take a backward look, 
I remember youthful days 
When I loved and longed to praise 
Beauty round me everywhere; — 
All the world to me was fair. 
Bright with sunshine, music, flowers. 
Kindly friends and golden hours. 

Phrases frorn an olden song 
Haunted me for long and long; 
Deeply happy were my dreams, 
Wandering by country streams; 
And I loved the poets old 
Chanting numbers all of gold. 

Now at end of many days 
Still I love and long to praise 
Beauty, goodness, honor, truth, 
Still despairing as in youth 
Of recording justly well 
Half of all that I would tell 
Of the loving Father's care 
For His children everywhere. 



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